


Always 1895

by standbygo



Category: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: Time travelling historian John Watson goes to Victorian era England to study, and meets detective Sherlock Holmes. He finds himself torn between the work he was sent to do, the exciting life of solving crimes, and the extraordinary Holmes himself.This is not a WIP; it is complete, and I will post it as I edit, with a new chapter every week.





	1. “Low at my problem bending, another problem comes”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the premise of the Oxford Time Travel series by Connie Willis. The books, if you want to read them, are The Domesday Book, Blackout, All Clear, and To Say Nothing of the Dog. I’ve used a few characters from the series, made up a few others.
> 
> For those who haven’t read them, here’s the idea: time travel has been perfected, and is used by historians at Oxford University for field studies.
> 
> Chapter titles are from Emily Dickinson poems.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful betas: Besina, Nautilicious, and stilltheaddict, and the inspirational Fic Writers' Retreat 2018 people.

_A Small Favour – Preparations – The Quality of Good Wool – Opportunities – Fashionable Facial Hair_

 

“You’ve got to be joking.”

John stared, incredulous, at Mr. Dunworthy, who had a small smile on his face as he shook his head.

“I’m not,” said Mr. Dunworthy. “I need you on this one, John.”

“But,” John said, scratching his eyebrow in consternation, “surely there’s a first year who-”

“The Departmental Committee has deemed that after last year’s… issues… no first years can travel back any more. They’ve only just finished cleaning up the mess. So they’re twitchy at the moment, and only allowing graduate students right now.”

“Right, so, what about Feng or Charles or-”

“Feng is on a six month field study of the silk industry in 19th century China; Charles is cleaning up the last of the threads in WWII Suffolk, Amanda is in Myanmar observing the 2029 revolution, and Teerha is on paternity leave. I’m desperate, John, please.”

“But I’m TA for Professor Hierlihy, and I have to mark his second year’s midterms and get them back by Feb first, and I’m defending my thesis on April 15 and I’ve got to-”

“I’ve told Hierlihy that he can mark his own midterms and take his holidays in February like everyone else. And I’ve moved your thesis date to June 21, you’ll be back in plenty of time.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You moved my defense date?”

Mr. Dunworthy smiled. “John, you needn’t worry about your thesis. Mackleroy let me see it, it’s a fine piece of work. Mackleroy’s just letting you dangle because he wants to keep you as his assistant. Can’t blame him. Look, it’s not a terrible assignment; it’s not like I’m sending you to research tanneries in the 15th century to wade in piss for three months.”

“But hasn’t late 19th century England been done to death? Surely I’ll be bumping into historians left, right, and centre there?”

Dunworthy sighed. “We’ve received a grant for this specific purpose, for this area of study. Quite a generous grant, I might add.”

“A grant.” John stared. “A grant to study morgue practices in Victorian England.”

“Some eccentric philanthropist, I don’t know, John, but the College Head said yes, without checking with me about feasibility and human resources, and I’m desperate. Plus I know the subject won’t throw you off, with your medical background. Imagine if I sent Nicolas?”

“He’d faint on the spot,” John grinned despite himself.

“He would.” Dunworthy paused, scrutinizing John. “How’s the shoulder?”

John stopped rubbing at it, realizing that he had been doing so without thinking. “Fine.”

“What does Dr. Lyon say?”

“He says it’s fine.” Dunworthy glared at John. “All right, he says it’s at 85%, but another month of physio and muscle enhancers should get it up to capacity.”

“And what did he say about field study.”

John gritted his teeth. “No trips above a level six until he’s given his personal clearance.”

Dunworthy hummed, in sympathy with John’s anger. “I’m surprised you recovered so quickly, I must admit. Those early twenty-first century guns did a lot of damage.”

John looked down at the floor. “Mr. Dunworthy, it wasn’t my fault, all right? I got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and took a bullet. Mr. Lassiter already let me have it about wasting valuable department resources to put together a rescue team for me and-”

“Lassiter can shut it. Department resources be damned. The moment I heard he’d sent you to 2007 Afghanistan I started putting together a recovery team. It’s a damn dangerous era, it’s an eight really, Lassiter had it moved to a five for his own purposes, and you ended up getting badly hurt.”

John bit his lip. “Is it true you’ve now had it changed back to an eight?”

Dunworthy smiled grimly. “Nine. No one’s going back, not while I’m Department Head.”

“Good. That’s – good.”

John was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory of lying in the sand, trying not to scream with the pain and give away his position to the Taliban soldiers, trying to hold the blood in his body by pressing on the meat of his shoulder. He honestly thought he was going to die there, die far from home and far from his own time. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed until the rescue team found him; the sight of Colin was like a mirage, a mirage that picked him up and carried him to a cave until the drop opened again. They’d been met on the other side by a med team, and John remembered Dunworthy’s worried face as the team worked on stopping the bleeding and impending infection.

He did owe Dunworthy, as much as he didn’t like to admit it.

“All right,” John said.

Dunworthy grinned and clapped his hands. “Marvellous. Thank you, John. I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry. Now. You’ll leave Tuesday at 15:20, from Balliol, I’ve got Bahdri running your drop so you’re in the best hands. You’ll want to read up on local history and politics, focusing on London, of course, and Victorian etiquette. Get at least forty contemporary pounds from Props.”

John already had his notebook out and was scribbling. “Forty? That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

“You’ll be there six weeks, you’ll need rent, and I-”

“Six weeks!?”

“Yes, and I don’t want you to get distracted with a job, so you’ll need enough rent to get by. Oh, and get yourself some follicle enhancers for your face, you’ll need some facial hair, a beard or mustache or something like. Very unusual for men to not have them in this era.”

“I hate follicle enhancers. I’ll just grow it myself, it will only take three weeks or so…”

“I need you to leave Tuesday.”

“You’ve got to be _joking_.”

**

John realized he was stomping around the lab, but he didn’t want to stop and would not stop.

“Stop stomping, John, you’re distracting me,” Bahdri said.

“Sorry,” John said, and kept stomping.

“What’s got you so cheesed?” Jen said, as she checked a line of data. “This is such an easy assignment, easy peasy.”

“Six weeks,” John said. He threw himself into a chair. “ _Six weeks_ , and morgues, and stuffy people with no sense of humour, and everything itches.”

“Itches?”

John counted on his fingers. “My trousers itch. My waistcoat itches. My collar itches. My socks itch. My goddamn underwear itches. And my face itches more than any of that put together.”

“Oh yeah, I meant to say, love the mustache,” Bahdri said. “Really sexy.”

“Shut it.”

“No, I mean it. If you had had that when we were dating I would never had let you break up with me.”

“ _You_ broke up with _me_ ,” John said.

“Nope,” Bahdri said, grinning, without taking his eyes off the controls. “You broke up with me after three wonderful weeks to date Mary.”

“And we all know how well that turned out,” Jen added.

“Aw, you’re all just jealous that I can grow a mustache this – this-”

“Bushy?” Jenn said.

“Curly? How did you get it to curl at the ends like that?” Bahdri said.

“I was going to say, magnificent,” John grinned. He was glad Bahdri was a good sport about the whole thing, even though it was ages ago. The whole Mary thing had been a disaster, and he and Bahdri had agreed long ago that they were better friends than lovers.

“So how are you going to eat soup and get any of the vegetables, John?” Jen chimed in.

“I said shut-”

“Everything ready, Bahdri?” Dunworthy said as he came into the room. All grins were promptly suppressed, but John simply crossed his arms and glowered. “All right, John? Oh, the follicle enhancers worked very well.”

“I look ridiculous,” John said. “And I itch.”

“Wool was a staple then, before syntho-fabrics,” Dunworthy said. “And you’ll need the warmth, April 1895 was still quite damp and cold, and no central heating, remember.”

“Wool is _hateful_.”

“You’ll get to see spring coming in,” Dunworthy said wistfully. “Seasons are more regulated now, since the Climate Control Act in 2038.”

“So I’ll be cold, and itchy, but I get to see some flowers. Gosh, thanks, Mr. Dunworthy.”

Dunworthy sat down next to John and patted him a bit clumsily on his knee. “Thank _you_ , John,” he said, lowering his tone so the others wouldn’t hear. “I know you don’t want to do this, and it’s a huge inconvenience for you.”

John felt mollified, and a bit guilty. “Well, it’s not _that_ inconvenient. Thanks for moving my thesis date.”

“Your defense will take about fifteen minutes, I think. It’s a solid thesis, your committee will pass you. In fact, Mackleroy told me that he’ll recommend it for publication by the Oxford University Press.”

John’s jaw fell open. “Really?”

“Not just as a textbook either. The full treatment. Your picture on the front and everything.”

John shook his head a little. “Well. Right. I-”

“And John.” Dunworthy looked around, ensuring that everyone in the room was out of earshot or busy. “I just heard that Perciante is retiring. They’ve asked me to recommend someone for his tenure track, and I’d like to recommend you.”

John stared at him, speechless.

“That’s not a bribe, John. I’d recommend you whether you went or not. But that’s one of the qualities I like about you – you’ll always do a favour for someone, even when you don’t want to.”

“Mr. Dunworthy-”

“Don’t tell anyone, all right? That annoying pup Emil thinks it should be him, but he’s nowhere near as qualified as you are.”

“Mr. Dunworthy, I-” John let his breath out in a gust of air. “Wow. Thank you.”

Dunworthy clapped John on the shoulder twice, then bent over to dig into his briefcase. “I had Colin do some digging for you,” he said. He pulled out a bundle of envelopes and handed them to John. “Here are letters of introduction to the Chiefs of Medicine for the target hospitals in London. We’ve checked each of them and there’s little to no risk of divergence. Just give the letter to the Chief and ask for a tour of the hospital, including the morgues. Your cover story is that you’re building a new hospital in Stirling, and want to do research. Take lots of notes.”

John patted his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a journal and pen here, but if I fill it up, they’re readily available in that era.”

“And this era as well,” Dunworthy said. “I remember you in your first year, after you switched from pre-med to history. A whole room full of kids with auto-pens or tablets, and you, right in the middle, writing with an old fashioned pen and notebook.”

“Helps me to retain the information better, if I write it.”

“Me too.” Dunworthy smiled, and John smiled back.

“We’re ready, John, Mr. Dunworthy,” Bahdri called.

They stood; John noticed that Dunworthy was slower to stand, his knees and back popping. He wondered for a brief moment how old Dunworthy was, and how far from retirement, then dismissed the thought. It was impolite to consider, even in his head.

He crossed to the net, the small area curtained by a gauzy, metallic mesh that would open to the past and allow him through. As he moved, all the wool in his clothing rubbed against his skin afresh, and his irritation swept back tenfold.

“God damn _wool_ ,” he muttered. He gave himself a good scratch, knowing he would have little opportunity once he went through.

“Where did you arrange the drop?” Dunworthy asked Bahdri.

“In an alleyway near St. Paul’s, Carter Lane,” Bahdri said. “Pre-dawn, I’m afraid, but that’s all I could do to avoid a divergence or a contemp witnessing. Hard to find a quiet place in London in 1895, even in April.”

“Fine,” John said. One more scratch, then he stepped up to the net. “When does the drop open again?”

“Midnight, May 26. Same place.”

“Right.” He stood in place in the net, allowing himself to still.

“Be safe, John,” Dunworthy called.

John mentally shook his head at Dunworthy, having seen him worry himself sick over every drop. “It’s Victorian London,” he said. “How dangerous could it be?”

Then sparkles drew across his vision, the net fell, and he was through.


	2. “Wonder – is not precisely Knowing”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives in London, April 1895 and meets an extraordinary person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrivals and adjustments – cost of living – introductions – strange and strangers – a day like no other

John stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust from the bright lights of the Balliol lab to the deep darkness of an alleyway in London at 4:20am, April 14, 1895.

It was cold; really, really cold. And damp. The temperature did not make him grateful for the wool clothes, just made him realize that now he was both cold _and_ itchy. He walked out of the alley, his sour mood returning, grumbling internally about the unfairness of this crap assignment: six weeks in what was likely the most boring era in history. He wondered whether he was being punished, either by the department or by the historian gods, for the bullet that had found his shoulder in 2007 Afghanistan. And his shoulder still hurt, still ached, and he felt old and useless and cold and _itchy_.

Then he came out of the alley into Carter Lane, and there was St. Paul’s, arching up into the sky with the moon behind it. John stopped dead and stared. It was stunningly beautiful, and he gave his head a shake. He should be grateful: he was in London, during the era that had truly defined the city as a world power, its reputation still intact after two hundred years. This was London, and it was beautiful now in a way that was different from the London he was used to.

And he had six weeks in which to enjoy it.

This was a brief interlude in his studies, to be sure, but he might as well enjoy it before he returned to see what fate had in store for him and his career at Oxford in 2060.

He wandered around the heart of the city, watching and observing as London greeted the dawn. He relished the sight of each landmark as the rising sun touched it. Then the lamplighters came out and began to extinguish the street lamps, one by one, leaving the streets illuminated with natural light. The hawkers came out, and John bought a pastry from one. He sat on the steps of St. Paul’s, chewing on his breakfast and found himself enjoying it immensely. The taste of the meat and onions in the pastry burst over his tongue, and he revelled in the rich taste of food without syntho-fillers.

 _Perhaps this won’t be so bad_ , he thought.

He bought a paper from a newsboy. He wouldn’t be able to go to the first hospital on his list until at least 9:00am, hours away. He read through the paper, matching the bold headlines with his history texts, then moved onto the smaller news items that history would forget, items which he found personally fascinating. Then he turned to the classifieds in search of temporary rooms for his stay.

He was dismayed to find that the ‘to let’ ads were few in number, and the ones that were there were more expensive than his research had led him to believe. If he wanted to stay in London proper, the forty pounds he had brought would not be sufficient for three months, especially if he wanted to eat more than once a day. Rents were cheaper outside London, as they always had been and always would be, but John knew that it would take him hours to get into the city every day. An alternative would be to get a job of some sort to supplement his income, but that would take precious time away from the work he had to do. If he wanted Dunworthy to follow through on his promises of tenure track positions and career development, he should at least return with research that would fulfil the requirements of the grant. John had never been one to settle for doing a half-arsed job anyway.

He tucked the newspaper away in his jacket pocket, and stood, brushing the pastry crumbs off his front and mustache. Perhaps he could ask around, once he got to know a few people here.

As the bells of St. Paul’s chimed nine, he opened up his valise, and pulled out the bundle of letters Dunworthy had given him. He pulled the first one from the pile and examined it:

_Dr. Michael Stamford, Chief of Staff, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital._

**

“Well, of course, I’d be pleased to show you our hospital!” Dr. Stamford said.

John had taken to Stamford immediately. He had a round, friendly face and a personality to match. He had peered at John’s letter a bit owlishly, ignoring the pince-nez that dangled on a ribbon around his neck. For a moment, John feared that Stamford doubted his letter, that there was a massive error with the research or the execution of the letter, then Stamford had looked up and smiled at him.

“We’re very proud of our facility here at St. Bartholomew’s,” Stamford continued. “We’ve always tried to keep up with the scientific advances in medicine, for the benefit of our patients and of course our medical college. I know your particular interest is the morgue, but I’ll show you the whole thing, if you’ve the time to spare. We’ve just renovated our operating theatre, and I’m like a new father, wanting to show off!”

So John had agreed, and spent a good hour seeing over the hospital as Stamford chattered away. Of course to his eyes the facilities were terribly primitive, but he knew that for the era this was the latest and greatest in hospital advancement. He was briefly horrified at the maternity ward, but was able to keep his face neutral as he thanked God that he hadn’t been born a woman before 1999.

“You’re a good man to humour me so,” Stamford said as they descended the stairs to the basement of the building. “I hope I haven’t wasted too much of your time.”

“Not at all,” John said, smiling. “It was very educational. Your hospital is the marvel of the age.”

Stamford puffed up with pride. “You’re kind to say so,” he said. “But now, to the crux of your business here. The morgue hasn’t been updated in some time, it hasn’t really been given the same degree of focus of study as, say, internal medicine. So the morgue isn’t as modern as the rest of the hospital. Still, I – oh dear.”

Stamford’s friendly face had dropped into something like dismay. John noticed the change just as he became aware of a noise from the rooms below.

\- _thwack – thwack – thwack -_

“You’ll have to excuse – terribly sorry. We have a… guest that often comes here for, ah, independent study. His methods are, shall we say, unorthodox, and… He is a genius, no denying, but a bit… Well. Let me, ah, introduce you.”

The noise grew louder as they approached the dimly lit rooms of the lower levels of the hospital. Gas lights flickered high up on the walls, illuminating their dankness only dimly. Through a window John could see rows of tables, each with a still figure covered in a sheet. There was a man standing with his back to them, next to one of the tables, and the _thwack_ sounds corresponded with a tight movement of his right arm.

John stopped short as he realized what he was seeing. The man was whipping one of the corpses, methodically and violently.

He turned to Stamford, his jaw hanging open, and Stamford shrugged helplessly. “He _is_ a genius.”

Stamford entered the room, and John felt himself instinctively move into a defensive position, ready to defend Stamford from this bizarre man should the occasion arise.

“Mr. Holmes?” Stamford called out.

The man gave one more decisive blow to the corpse, and turned to them. His face was thin, with his cheekbones thrown into relief in the shadows of the room. Despite the vigour of his action, his face remained pale and bloodless, with only a faint blush high up on his cheeks betraying his exertion. “Ah, Stamford,” he said. “I was told that this poor fellow had no family to claim him, and required his services to help me with an experiment which may save another man from the noose. I didn’t realize you’d be bringing around a guest.”

The man was full of restless, kinetic energy in a way that jarred with John’s perception of contemps of this era. His fingers fluttered over the riding crop, he talked a mile a minute, but his grey eyes were clear and steady.

“Don’t mind me, sir, merely an experiment to test bruising post-mortem. But you’re a medical man, are you not? Surely this kind of thing doesn’t turn you giddy as it would a layman. Stamford here, he’s used to my oddities.”

“I am indeed, Mr. Holmes, but I believe we had agreed that you would speak to me or at least forward a message when you planned to use our facilities here?”

“Indeed you did, Stamford, indeed you did. However, this case arose and I was required to act upon it as soon as possible. Would you introduce us, please?”

Stamford let out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, this is Dr. John Watson, of Edinburgh. Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

John was still so shocked that it took him a moment to notice Holmes’ proffered hand and remember to shake it.

“Delighted, Dr. Watson,” Holmes said. “But you’re not from Edinburgh, are you? Not recently, at any rate. Some family background, yes, but you’re a Londoner, from Notting Hill, or Kensington, I can tell from your shoes. But you have recently been in Afghanistan, I perceive?”

John was dimly aware that he must look like an idiot, with his jaw hanging open, his eyes wide, and that he hadn’t said a word since he’d entered the room. He _had_ been in Afghanistan, only three months earlier in John’s personal timeline, but a hundred years in Holmes’ future.

“Yes - but-” he spluttered.

“No matter. Good you’re back in England, yes? And your wound has healed nicely - left shoulder, was it? But never mind that, I see you are looking for lodgings. It so happens I am looking for a level-minded fellow to share rooms with - we can look at the place tomorrow at ten. You mustn’t mind my occasional quiet moods, nor my playing the violin whilst I think, nor my odd hours. 221B Baker Street, in Westminster. And now you must excuse me, I have an experiment running in the laboratory as well, and I must return to check on its results. Ten tomorrow, Dr. Watson, until then. Good day, Stamford.”

And he was gone in a whirl of hat and coat.

Stamford was grinning helplessly at John. “He’s an eccentric, for certain, Dr. Watson, but not mad; despite all appearances.”

“I’m - sure,” John said. There was nothing that could have prepared him for this kind of encounter. He rewound the conversation in his head, and belatedly realized that he may have solved his accommodation problem.

“Shall we look over the rest of the facility, Dr. Watson?”

“Yes,” John said, shaking his head a bit. “Certainly.”

**

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date April 14, 1895 – Day 1_

_I’ve done 56 time travel assignments since I started at Oxford, this is number 57, and I’ve never had a day like today._

_Arrival was no problem, the drop opened without incident and without any contemps in the area. One of the problems with the drop is that the technician has to find a time and a place with no chance of witnesses, or the drop won’t open. That kind of thing is making Bahdri’s hair go white before he’s forty. So you end up in out of the way places with only rabbits or sand lizards to witness, or at ungodly hours. Or in this case, 4:20 in the morning in an alley that I would normally have hesitated to enter. However, I arrived, no problem, and spent an enjoyable sunrise in St. Paul’s Square._

_London in this era still thrums with energy and life. It’s clear that the contemps believe that this is the greatest era, in the greatest country, in the greatest city, of all time. I’m beginning to agree._

_Anyway, made my first local contact at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Dr. Michael Stamford. I hope all the other contacts are similarly accommodating.  Took lots of notes (see Tab A). It seems so primitive to me, but I have to remember that this is the height of scientific discovery for this time._

_All according to plan, then._

_Then I met another contemp named Sherlock Holmes. He defies all my expectations of a man of this era. His curiosity doesn’t just border on morbid, it careens over the other side. He took one look at me and nearly blew my cover. He knew immediately I wasn’t actually from Edinburgh – well, that wouldn’t take much, as I didn’t try to affect an accent. I tried that once in 1983 Dublin and it was a disaster. Anyway, what was truly strange was he knew I’d been in Afghanistan, and that I needed accommodation. And in the space of a minute he’d set an appointment with me to look at a place and was gone._

_Now I’m in a middle-class hotel for the night, which Stamford helped me find, and I’m going to look at a place in Westminster tomorrow at ten. With some madman called Sherlock Holmes._

_I suppose the positive thing is that if Sherlock Holmes’s interests lie towards the morbid, I should have no trouble with my research on morgues._

John laid the pen between the pages. One of the advantages to going to an era where most contemps knew how to read and write was that taking notes was unobtrusive. He’d take his research notes and personal musings together in the journal for now, and then write up a full report when he got back. In six weeks.

John sighed and shivered. He’d exchanged his itchy suit for a somehow equally itchy cotton nightshirt which he’d bought that afternoon, upon realizing that Wardrobe hadn’t supplied him with any night clothes. He crawled under the covers, and let his teeth chatter until his body heat took over.  He wondered what Mr. Dunworthy would have made of the day he’d experienced.

“Madman,” John said to himself, and blew out the lamp.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contemps = used as slang in the Connie Willis books for 'contemporary', or a person living in the era you're visiting.


	3. “A certain Slant of light”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons recited – a Price negotiated – Settling in – a Display of Gifts – his Profession Revealed – Bells and Boys

John arrived on the dot of ten, carrying his valise. He’d walked, as it wasn’t too far from the hotel, and he was still enjoying the streets of London. It also gave him time to think.

_Is this a mistake?_ he thought. _Yes, I’ll be saving money, but could I be creating a divergence?_

It was always a danger with time travel, to accidentally create a situation where timelines were affected. It was drummed into every History major before they were even allowed near the labs – ‘Don’t look up or try to find past family members.’ ‘Don’t get involved with historical figures.’ ‘Stay away from areas or situations of known historical impact.’ He remembered his first year teacher repeating ad nauseum, _“If it’s in a book, don’t go and look.”_

He had wracked his memory for any mentions of Sherlock Holmes in Victorian history, and come up empty. He’d have remembered a name like that, certainly.

_What would Dunworthy do?_ he thought, and smiled to himself: Dunworthy had been through the London blitz and the Black Death, and he was all right. Should be fine, John told himself. Just saving on the rent, just as Dunworthy told me to.

Just as he approached the address Holmes had given him, a hansom cab drew up and Holmes himself leapt out. “Ah, Doctor Watson, there you are. I like punctuality in a medical man. Stay a moment, driver. Come on, let’s ring up our landlady and housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson turned out to be a tiny older woman, with wrinkles that evidenced both grief and joy in her past. “Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said, kissing her hand gallantly. “I take it you received my message about Dr. Watson.”

“Indeed I did, and welcome, Dr. Watson. Come in out of the cold, now, and I’ll show you the rooms.”

The rooms were large and airy, with large windows, and comfortable looking chairs. John was briefly mystified by the lack of a kitchen, then remembered that Mrs. Hudson would likely be preparing their meals.

“What do you think, Doctor? I’ll take the lower room, if you don’t mind – I’m a night owl, often doing experiments through the night – don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson, it’s harmless. Well. Usually harmless. But they’re excellent rooms, don’t you think?”

“They’re fine,” John said, smiling at Mrs. Hudson. “The upper room is fine.”

“Excellent,” Holmes crowed. “I’ll just have the driver bring my things up.” And he dashed back down the stairs, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson to gaze at each other in wonder.

“He brought his things?” John said.

“Well, he’s decisive, that’s a mercy,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’ve had boarders that hem and haw for days. Now then, let me put on some tea while you two get settled. Perhaps Mr. Holmes’s driver can take bring your things afterwards?”

John patted the bag. “This is everything, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. I’ll just take this up and then offer my assistance to Mr. Holmes.”

**

John was astonished at the amount of stuff that Holmes had crammed into the hansom cab. Between him and John and the cab driver (after being plied with a half crown), it took nearly an hour to unload the cab and carry everything upstairs. Throughout the process, Holmes kept shouting, “Be careful with that, dolt! It’s delicate equipment!” The cabbie started to look rebellious at one point, until John gave him another shilling.

By the time Holmes was finished and unpacked, he had taken over much of the sitting room and parlour. John was glad he only had his valise; there wouldn’t have been room if he had brought anything else.

John’s bedroom was small, but neat and clean. He’d had worse – the hut in 1990s Afghanistan, for instance, or that terrible week in the trenches of France just after the Armistice. John congratulated himself for landing on his feet. All this for eight guineas a month, his share of the room and board.

Mrs. Hudson brought up a delicious tea, and the three of them ate together. He noted that Holmes barely ate anything, just drank his tea absentmindedly while reading a dusty-looking tome.

After Mrs. Hudson had cleaned up and left, her tea tray rattling down the stairs, John thought he should outline his plan of attack for the remaining hospitals in London. He hadn’t had time in the rush to leave, and he could work unobtrusively while Holmes read. It would simply appear that he was writing in his journal.

But as he worked, he found his thoughts wandering to Holmes, who now puffed on a pipe as he read. As much as he tried to focus on his work – first the Great Ormond Street Hospital in Bloomsbury, then up to the Liverpool Royal Infirmary in mid-February – his mind returned to Holmes’s words the previous day, his despite-all-odds accurate observation that John had been in Afghanistan. The fact that John wasn’t actually from Edinburgh wasn’t so surprising, as John was well aware of his limitations with accents, but Afghanistan! How could –

“You surprise me, Doctor Watson,” Holmes said.

“Hmm?” John said, his head snapping up and away from his ruminations.

“You are a man of science, are you not?”

“Y-Yes,” John said. He had no clue where this was going.

“I had thought that a doctor and a scholar such as yourself would be a man of curiosity, of active exploration of the world around you, of interest in the new. And yet you sit there quietly, full of questions about my observations about you yesterday, and say nothing. You have questions, I know you do – give voice to them, Doctor. Satisfy yourself, sir, and ask.”

John’s first reaction was to be appalled at the ego on the man, until he realized that he was right – he did have questions. “How-?”

“Simple observation, Dr. Watson. Immediately after tea you set yourself assiduously to work on your journal, no doubt planning your visits to other hospitals in accordance with your mission. As time went by, however, you spent less time writing, and more time alternating between staring into space and quick glances in my direction. I could understand the looks at me if I were doing something unusual – as I can often do, Doctor, you are hereby warned – but at the moment I am doing nothing but reading quietly. The evidence is there: your mind had wandered back to yesterday’s meeting and to my observations of you. If I have an axiom in life, it is this: curiosity must be assuaged.  Ask.”

John blinked for a moment, then straightened in his chair, abandoning his notebook and facing Holmes dead on. “All right. You said I had been in Afghanistan.”

“I did. I also said you weren’t from Edinburgh, but that is but a beginner’s deduction, as your accent is not broad, lacking the harder R sounds and the rounded Os. ‘Your hospital is the marvel of the age’ – I heard you in the hallway – versus ‘Yoor hospital is the marrval of thee aage’ – you see? Obvious. But Afghanistan – ah, but that was more of a challenge. The tan lines on your wrists and neck indicate that you have been in a hot country, but not for pleasure, as the lines in your face do not indicate a recent holiday. That you had been wounded is obvious from the stiffness with which you hold your body, particularly your shoulder – I am correct, it was the left, yes? What reason is there to be in a hot country with the risk of being shot but that you were a soldier at war – thus, Afghanistan. Further, you have left your commission, more likely discharged due to your injury, and have turned to fighting the battle of the intellectual; that is, become a scholar. The callous on your left inner index finger indicates the hard use of a pen or pencil in the taking of notes. Your study brought you to St. Bartholomew’s, therefore you are studying medicine. A soldier doctor. What an excellent combination of professions, sir, I congratulate you.”

_Completely right, and yet still wrong_ , John thought. “And the fact I was looking for lodgings?”

“Child’s play. The Times was sticking out of your jacket pocket, with a circle in pencil on the ‘Rooms For Let’ page in view. Anything else? Or are you now satisfied, Doctor?”

John was accustomed to being around intelligent people – he attended Oxford University for God’s sake. He himself was no slouch. But now it hit him, like a lightning strike – _This is the smartest man I’ve ever met_.

“Spot on, Mr. Holmes,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. “I congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” Holmes returned to his book.

“But you have me at an advantage, sir,” John said. _This_ was what drove him to study history, drove him to Oxford, to the time travel program – the desire to _know_. “You have learned everything about me in a glance, but I know nothing of you except your name. What do you do – I mean, how do you apply this skill you have as a profession?”

At that moment, John heard the muffled sound of a knock at the door, and Holmes grinned broadly – and perhaps a little madly. “You are about to discover, Dr. Watson. I believe that is a message from Detective Gregson of Scotland Yard, and he, as he frequently does, needs my help.”

John realized he was still staring while Holmes sat back in his chair, coolly, smugly. _The man’s going to think my jaw belongs on my chest_ , he thought, as he heard Mrs. Hudson’s measured step on the stairs.

“Message for you, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

Holmes arched an eyebrow at John before shifting his attention to the slip of paper Mrs. Hudson handed him. “Interesting,” he muttered. In one swift movement, he stood, set the paper aside, and tapped out his pipe. “I am called for, to Brixton,” he said, shrugging out of his dressing gown and reaching for his jacket. “Put your coat on, Doctor Watson, and come along, should you wish to learn more about my profession.”

John had his coat and hat on and was on the street with Holmes, watching him wave down a hansom cab, before he had another coherent thought.

A hansom cab, drawn by a horse, pulled up to the kerb, and Holmes opened the door. “After you, Doctor.”

John was sure he wasn’t imagining the spark in Holmes’ eye as John clambered in, and he jumped in after him with an energy surpassing any he had displayed so far.

“Brixton, driver, quick as you can,” Holmes said. He sat back in his seat, and looked over at John, his mouth quirking. “You have another question, Doctor?”

“I – yes – I – how the-” John stopped himself, remembering appropriate language for this era. “How in heaven’s name did you know the message was from Scotland Yard?”

“Simple,” Holmes replied. “The messenger boy from the Yard is small for his age and can’t reach the bell. So he knocked.”

John felt something huge and wonderful rise inside him like a bubble, and before he could stop himself, he let out a most un-Victorian snort of laughter. He turned his head away from Holmes, towards the window, to hide his face.

But only a moment later he heard a low, deep chuckle beside him. He turned back and found himself looking at Holmes in the eye, and they both laughed as the cab sped through the streets of London toward Brixton.

 


	4. “The Lamp burns sure”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working Together – a New Science - Boredom and Fascination – Incorrect Assumptions – Unaccustomed to Compliments – Trial and Error

It was nearly twilight when they reached Brixton, and the lamplighter was making his slow way down the street, leaving an oily glow behind him.

“Have you heard of these electric lights, Watson? Marvellous invention. Do you think I could  try to convince Mrs. Hudson to install them on Baker Street?”

John remembered hearing about the superstition and suspicion around electric light until well into the new century - not to mention the expense. “I think that not even your charm would be sufficient to sway Mrs. Hudson on the matter.”

“We shall team together then,” Holmes said with a grin that reminded John of their fit of laughter earlier, then he was striding towards the address, looking carefully at the mud in the streets.

“Detective Gregson!” Holmes roared.  “Have you allowed His Majesty’s full army to parade through here?”

A thin, greasy man whose clothes were too large and hat too small approached Holmes. “Ah! You’re here at last, Mr. Holmes. Took you that long, didn’t it. You had asked me to call you regarding cases such as this, but I think you’ll find that the great minds of the Yard will have this solved shortly.”

“I doubt that on many levels, Mr. Gregson,” Holmes said dryly.

“You may think your strange ways are the only solution, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll find that the Yard has seventy years of experience behind it,” Gregson said. “The professionals have this under control, you’ll see.”

“Then whyever did you call for me?” Holmes said. Rather than being snappish, as John would have thought the conversation called for, Holmes was all innocence and guile. “Not to worry, I’ll just have a quick look and be on my way then.” He strode toward the house, with Gregson trotting behind him.

John held back for a moment, appalled at the bad manners he had just witnessed. Gregson was acting as though Holmes was imposing himself, after having called for him. He had always thought that Victorian British men were infallibly polite.

“Come along, Doctor Watson!” Holmes called.

“Right, sorry,” John said, and ran up to the door.

Gregson led them to an upper room, chatting the whole way about the Yard’s skills and experience, with Holmes following silently. John smelt the coppery tinge to the air before he was even close enough to see the body.

John had seen dead bodies before. He had been pre-med before switching over to the history department, and he hadn’t left due to squeamishness but rather because of a bureaucratic snafu which had caused the collapse of his scholarship. He’d heard that Balliol was accepting mature students for History and Professor Dunworthy had accepted him, with a particular focus on military history.

And one did not become a time travelling historian without seeing one’s own share of bodies. Many first years dropped History after their first field study – when they realized that history was in fact the study of death, of deaths in great numbers. It was one thing to read about a battlefield, and it was quite another to be there, to hear the screams of grown men, and to see the absolute stillness of those whose screaming was over. Mr. Dunworthy once told him that the dropout rate for history students was approximately 48%, after they had done their first field study and decided to instead indulge their love of the past through the relatively sterile medium of books, switching to reading English Lit at Magdalene College.

John realized that this was why Dunworthy had asked him to do this assignment. He was supposed to be studying Victorian era morgues. Dunworthy knew it wouldn’t phase him, and a more junior student couldn’t have handled it. John smiled internally at his memory of Mr. Dunworthy, his kindness to John, and resolved to return with good research for the study grant, to repay the trust Mr. Dunworthy had placed in him.

He’d just do this with Holmes, then get back to the morgue study tomorrow.

Gregson led John and Holmes into a room, and John saw the body: a large man, lying on his stomach, his arms and legs caught in the final tangle of the agony of his death. There was an immediately visible difference between a body and a living person lying still. Something was missing, something that couldn’t be measured, but had been subtracted nonetheless.

Gregson stood aside, as though presenting a scene in a play. “So as you can see, the deceased-”

“Be quiet, Mr. Gregson,” Holmes snapped. Gregson looked momentarily mutinous, but obeyed.

Holmes stood back from the body, looking around the room. From his vantage point on the opposite side of the door, John could see Holmes’ eyes flickering at every detail. It reminded him of a machine of some kind, stuttering but fluid. Everything was perfectly still in the room for several minutes.

Holmes suddenly darted away from his position by the door. First he went to the hearth and examined the ashes, feeling them between his fingers; then a pinch of the top of the candle on the mantle; then a careful but quick examination of the window case. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather roll of tools, so quickly that it seemed to John that the roll leapt into Holmes’ hand. Holmes unrolled the kit and pulled out a number of instruments: a measuring tape, a small magnifying glass, minute callipers. Moving quickly but efficiently, Holmes began to work around the body, measuring, examining its fingernails, the soles of his boots.

John was fascinated, and looked to Gregson to share in this marvel, and was astonished to see Gregson lolling against the doorjamb, arms folded, almost rolling his eyes in boredom. John shook his head in amazement – had Gregson seen Holmes perform this too often? No; the policeman’s attitude suggested more of a waste of time than disinterest with a routine seen many times before.

John looked back to Holmes with a growing realization: that Holmes was employing forensic science, well before the actual development of that science. Gregson thought it was a waste of time because he didn’t realize the import of what Holmes was doing.  Criminology was not John’s field of specialization, but he knew that forensics hadn’t become a respected tool of the police for another twenty or thirty years after this.

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” Gregson drawled.

Holmes stood, brushing some dust from his trousers, and began to speak rapidly, staccato style.

“The victim is American, just arrived within the past week, but is English by birth. Mason. Check the registers for the hotels in the Strand – not the top ones, the more affordable ones. Your murderer, on the other hand, is a tall man, small feet, a young man, cigar smoker, Trichinopoly, I think. He was a married man but his wife recently died or abandoned him. Long fingernails, broken on the right hand. He and the victim came here together, in a single cab, drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off foreleg. And, Gregson, I’ve told you countless times that your investigations would greatly benefit if you would light the room, flood the room with light, and then you would see the most obvious of clues.” Holmes lit a match and strode quickly to the far side of the room, lifting the light to show a word in macabre paint on the wall – RACHE.

“Rachel?” Gregson said, a note of bewilderment catching his voice.

“No, German for revenge. Good evening, Gregson, I’ll be in touch.” And with a sharp nod to John, Holmes swept out of the room. John was frozen in his place for a moment, then was prompted by a glare from Gregson, and trotted after Holmes.

He was finally able to catch up to Holmes on the street, who was walking with long strides towards the main road. “Holmes – wait – what the – devil was-”

“You wanted to see what I do, Watson,” Holmes said. There was a harsh note to his voice, which surprised John. “This is what I do – they call me to a case, I solve it for them, and they continue to mock my methods as witchcraft. And yet, time and time again, my deductions are correct. I will predict the future for you, Doctor,” and John swallowed somewhat nervously, “that my deductions will turn out to be correct, when the victim is identified and the murderer is found, and the Yard will pat themselves on the back and congratulate themselves on their own cleverness.”

“But – that was – I’ve never seen anyone do that.” Of course John had, but not in this era, so it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Holmes looked at John from the side, quickly, then looked back out toward the street. John saw his jaw clench. “I will understand if you wish to discontinue our living arrangements, Watson,” he said. “You would not be the first, and undoubtedly not the last, to refuse to associate with a man with my interests, hobbies, and livelihood. And temperament. Understandable, really. I am accustomed to contempt, as you can see.”

“Nonsense,” John said. “That was bloody brilliant. Amazing.”

John noticed the tiny hitch in Holmes’ step, but didn’t remark upon it. “I – thank you.”

“How in heaven’s name did you learn about that – those methods?” John was madly curious, realizing that he was probably witness to the early days of forensic science.

“I didn’t learn it, I developed it myself,” Holmes said. John could see his body relaxing somewhat, and a small smile on the man’s lean face. “Through trial, and error, and experimentation.”

“Tell me,” John said.

 


	5. “Easy to work when the soul is at play”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distractions and Interruptions – Deceit for a Good Cause – a Desperate Attempt – Instinctive Action - Motivation

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date April 19, 1895 – Day 6_

_I haven’t had a chance to write here for several days – I’ve been assisting Holmes with this case. It’s been nonstop activity since it started. We’ve interviewed coppers, we’ve examined a woman’s wedding ring, had a little old lady come for the ring, who turned out to not be a little old lady after all, as ‘she’ led us on a merry foot chase through Houndsditch. I’ve grabbed a meal when I could and keeled over to sleep late every night, but Holmes seems to never sleep, never eat. The doorbell rings constantly, with police from the Yard, with messages for Holmes. I worried that Mrs. Hudson would be irritated with it but she seems to enjoy her part in the adventure._

_I’m behind with my timetable for the morgue study, but not badly so. I can skip the hospital in Yorkshire, I think, and focus on the London area contacts for the time being. I’ve got a lot of time still, and_

“Watson!”

John laid down his pen and sighed, but not with too much rancour. The historian in him wanted to make sure to keep up with his journal: to keep meticulous notes on everything that was happening – all the amazing things that were happening. But Holmes’ energy and passion for the case, for the mystery, were infectious, and John had to admit he was enjoying every minute of it.

He could hear Holmes’ rapid step on the stairs, and tucked his journal away quickly, just in time for Holmes to enter the flat like a ball from a cannon.

“Watson! I’ve got it! Gregson and Lestrade are on their way over. All shall be revealed!”

Holmes was practically bounding around the lounge, his energy and enthusiasm bubbling over. John tried to suppress his smile; Holmes looked more like a child on Christmas Day than a grown man. _And we’re talking about a murderer here, not the latest toy_ , John thought.

“Have you figured out the murderer, then, Holmes?” he said.

“I have. I know his name, I’ve seen his face. There is no doubt whatsoever. When those imbeciles from the Yard arrive they will know – they will _see_ – that my methods are superior to their bumbling efforts,” Holmes said, his eyes wide and glittering.

Now John could not hide his smile, and he grinned at Holmes. “And they’ll arrest him?”

Holmes only arched an eyebrow at John, then turned to open the door as the bell rang. “Come up, come up,” he bellowed down the stairs. “Don’t bother Mrs. Hudson, but come up!”

The two policemen obeyed, though not quickly enough for Holmes. John couldn’t miss Holmes’ eyes rolling like an impatient horse at the start line. “Fetch my valise from my room, if you wouldn’t mind, Watson? It’s on top of my wardrobe, the one with the buckle.”

John trotted down the hall to his room, wondering what on earth Holmes would need his valise for, but if the last few days had taught him anything, it was that Holmes always had a plan, that there was a reason for every action which on the surface seemed mad.

Holmes’ room was in stark contrast to the rest of the flat. John had become accustomed to the clutter of paper, tools, scientific equipment, and a million other things around the lounge and sitting room, but Holmes’ bedroom was neat as a pin. There was a framed document in Japanese on one wall, clearly in a place of honour. The bed was made up as neatly as an army man’s would be. John wondered at it all, and made a mental note to ask Holmes about it later. He pulled the valise down and returned to the lounge.

“Now what is this all about, Holmes?” Lestrade was saying. John had met him a few times, he seemed a good enough person but, like Gregson, was reluctant to acknowledge Holmes’ talents.

“I have identified the murderer; we will go to encounter him now,” Holmes said. “Ah, thank you, Watson. The cab should be here any moment now.”

“Is it far?” Gregson asked, eying the valise.

“Not terribly – I just needed a few things. Did you know I collected handcuffs, Watson?” Holmes said, pulling a pair from the desk. “This is a marvellous example, the latest thing, just remarkable. Ah!” Holmes turned as a boy appeared in the doorway. “Cab’s here, is it? Ask the cabbie to come up, Wiggins, he can help us with a few things.”

John looked around the room at the policemen, realizing that his own confusion was reflected in their faces. Holmes hadn’t said anything about a trip, about packing. He made a move towards the hallway, thinking that he should also throw a few items into a case, but Holmes caught his eye and gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. There was a smile there too, but so small that John wondered if it had really been there at all.

Heavy steps came slowly up the stairs, and the cabbie came to the doorway. He was a big man, heavily built around the shoulders and over six feet – well above the average height for a contemp. “You called for me, sir?” he said, his voice deep and slightly surly despite the polite words.

“Yes, thank you, give me a hand with this buckle, will you, there’s a good man,” Holmes said. The cabbie stepped to Holmes and bent over the valise.

John blinked and then the handcuffs were on the cabbie’s wrist with a metallic _snik_.

“Gentlemen: Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson,” Holmes said, and he turned to John and smiled.

There was a moment of absolute stillness: Holmes smiling with pride at John, and John and the other two men, and the cabbie, staring in shock.

Then Hope let out an animalistic roar and threw himself at the window.

The windowsill bent dangerously and one pane cracked, but did not give under the man’s weight. Lestrade and Gregson’s paralysis broke, and they both grabbed Hope by the jacket and pulled him back. Hope gave a shake and a snarl, and twisted out of their hold easily. Hope looked around, his eyes wild and wide, and saw the door he had come in – and Holmes blocking the way.

Hope charged.

In the space of a breath, John remembered prepping for his trip to 2029 Myanmar. For that, he went to the gym with Bahdri every day for a month, learning Kido-Kush from him, and sparred with Julien, a huge man a third bigger than John. Julien showed him how to take advantage of the different centres of gravity, and size difference doesn’t really matter in the Kido-Kush style of fighting.

Without thinking, John stepped forward, checked his hip into Hope, throwing him off balance. He quickly twisted his leg around Hope’s, shifted, and Hope flipped over John’s hip to land with a crash. John quickly turned the groaning Hope onto his front and kneeled on his back.

John looked up to the policemen, who were standing in shock, their arms still up as if they held an invisible Hope. They stared at him for a long moment until John snapped, “Well?”

Then they sprang into action, hauling Hope to his feet and holding him firmly as he swayed. They talked about taking Hope’s cab to the Yard, as John stood, panting slightly, John looked up and saw Holmes staring at him, his eyes full of curiosity and wonder.

**

“Do you believe his story?” John asked.

It was late evening, and the fire had burnt down to its embers, glowing orange and white in the gloom of the sitting room. Holmes was smoking a pipe, filling the room with aromatic smoke, looking through his notes from the case.

“Do you?” Holmes returned.

John considered. The tale that Hope had related at the Yard was epic and strange, and John wasn’t sure if he’d believe it if he’d read it in a book.

“He’s got no reason to lie, I suppose,” John said.

“Quite right,” Holmes said. “You listened to his heart, heard his aneurysm. I doubt he’ll live to see his trial.”

John contemplated Holmes for a moment. The man was now completely at ease, stretched out long and languorous in his chair; the opposite of the frenetic bundle of energy he had been throughout the case.

“Why do you do it?” John said.

“Hmm?”

John tapped the evening paper, with its headline: YARD CATCHES THE BRIXTON MURDERER!!

“You let the Yarders take all the credit; you don’t seem to care. You hardly slept or ate for three days while you were working on this case. No one paid you. Why do you do it?”

Holmes stood, and his mouth twisted in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. He reached for a case in the corner that John hadn’t noticed before, opening it to reveal a violin and bow. Holmes plucked at the strings for a moment, turned the pegs as the tones sweetened. “Oh,” he said as he lifted the violin to his shoulder, and as an actual smile broke through, “it passes the time.”

He began to play. Holmes played beautifully, his whole body arching, eyes closed, clearly lost in the music. John watched him for a while, then opened his journal and wrote:

_I believe that in all my travels, I have never met a man like Sherlock Holmes._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't bother looking up Kido-Kush martial arts - I totally made it up. :)


	6. “The Brain - is wider than the Sky”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans Made and Circumvented – Christmas morning – a Strange Story – Childish Scribbles – Waiting for Archimedes – Confrontations and Capitulations – Uncommon Fowl

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date April 24, 1895 – day 11_

_Holmes has been in a bit of a mope since the case ended. He hardly speaks, eats mechanically without pleasure, and spends hours lying on the divan like a statue. Not sure how he makes his living – perhaps his family has money? In any era, but particularly this era it would be terribly rude to ask, so of course I won’t._

_I’ve spent the last few days since the capture of Jefferson Hope reorganizing my plan of attack for the morgue study. I’m a little behind my original plan, but not hopelessly behind – yet. I may have to forgo some of the more far-flung locations, as I may have run out of time to accommodate the travel involved. I went to Charing Cross Hospital yesterday but the man in charge was away, won’t be back for a fortnight. (What a wonderful expression, fortnight. Such an oddly specific word.)_

_I think it’s still feasible to get the majority of them done. I might even still get to Belfast, if I hustle._

_But even while I’m planning, I can’t help but think about the case last week, and Hope’s arrest, and my actions. And wondering whether I’ve fucked everything up._

_Every undergraduate student about to embark on their first field study in time gets a lecture – gets a lot of lectures, actually: don’t create a divergence. Don’t seek out ancestors. Don’t go out of your way to find anyone famous or historically significant. You could create a time disparity which can affect everything thereafter._

_The problem is, how do you know who is historically significant? I mean you obviously don’t go back and deliberately assassinate Hitler, or Pontius Pilate, or Henry VIII. But you could drive yourself mad thinking about it: how do you know for sure that the bloke you kept from getting killed doesn’t become the next Hitler? Or his father?_

_I can’t help but think and worry that because of my interference, I may have affected the stream of history. Perhaps Holmes – even though he’s not famous, I’ve never heard of him in any of my research of this era – was supposed to be killed by Hope._

_Then I shake my head and remember: the net was created to prevent such accidents. It simply won’t open if there’s a potential divergence. Hell, it won’t even open if there’s a contemp around that could see it opening. That’s why we end up in alleyways near St. Paul’s at four o’clock in the morning. And Bahdri’s the best tech at Balliol – hell, the best tech at Oxford. That’s what he does, why he spends so long in prep, to check all potential divergences and remove the risk._

_I have to trust the net, and Bahdri’s work. And I need to concentrate on the job I was sent here to do._

_So. Whittington Hospital tomorrow, and then St. Mary’s Thursday morning and_

“Watson!”

John put down his pen and quickly hid his journal. Victorian sensibilities were generally towards respecting people’s privacy, but he also got the sense that Holmes didn’t necessarily align with Victorian sensibilities. He could already hear Holmes thundering up the stairs to hisroom, and Holmes’ voice was filled with an energy that John’s hadn’t heard since the Hope case concluded.

He opened his bedroom door to see Holmes, only a few steps away from the top, come to a skidding stop.

“Come on, Watson! Case!” Holmes pronounced, then whirled around and barrelled back down the stairs. “Our client has barely begun relating the issue, but my sense already is that this will be a fascinating one.”

John found himself caught up in Holmes’ energy, and followed him down the stairs. As if by mutual agreement, they both stopped at the foot of the stairs and gathered themselves, resuming a calmer demeanour. John had a sudden image of himself and Holmes charging into the sitting room like boys on Christmas morning.

“Pardon the interruption to your story,” Holmes said smoothly. “I wanted to be sure that my colleague heard your entire tale. Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor, North Walsham, Norfolk –  Doctor John Watson. Doctor Watson, Mr. Cubitt.”

Cubitt was a big, burly man, with a ruddy face that seemed as though his was a mostly happy life, but was presently consumed with trouble. He shook John’s hand with the appropriate pleasantries, and John was once again glad he had studied up on Victorian English etiquette. A squire!

“I thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes,” Cubitt said, turning his hat around and around in his hands. “I don’t like to involve the police, and I heard you were a man that was clever with situations such as mine.”

“Kindly start from the beginning, Mr. Cubitt,” Holmes said. He sat back in his chair and pressed his palms together, fingertips at his lips.

“I surely will, Mr. Holmes, as the beginning brings me much happier memories than my troubled thoughts of the present. I am married, Doctor Watson – quite happily so. My wife, Elsie – born Elsie Patrick – is American, and I met her during a visit to London from Norfolk last year. My Elsie, she-” and a light seemed to break across Cubitt’s face. John knew, without Cubitt having to say another word, that he loved his wife deeply. “- oh, she’s a wonderful woman. We were married a month after meeting, and have been-” Cubitt sighed, “very happy.”

“Happy, excellent, very good,” Holmes said, and John heard a note of impatience in his voice. “I take it your concerns are in relation to your wife.”

“They are,” Cubitt said heavily. “The one thing she asked of me – the only thing she’s ever asked of me – is that I never ask her about her past. She said it was painful to her, and she wished to leave it well behind her. I was more than happy to oblige.”

“And what happened to change that?” John said. He belatedly realized that Holmes had said, ‘our client’, and ‘my colleague’. If Holmes considered him to be a collaborator, then he should at least try to keep up his end of things.

“Last month, my Elsie received a letter from America. I didn’t ask her anything, as I knew she would not want me to. She didn’t show it to me, and quickly threw it in the fire.”

John heard Holmes hiss a disappointed sigh.

“I thought that was the end of the issue, but she was uneasy and restless, always nervous and jumping at shadows. Then another letter arrived, one day when she was out, and – well, I hope you don’t think less of me, but I wanted to keep her from the fear that she had been showing since the first letter arrived. So I kept it from her.”

“And do you have that letter?” Holmes said.

“I do, sir, and give it to you gladly,” Cubitt said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It was clear from the paper’s crumpled appearance that it had been in Cubitt’s pocket, near his heart, for some time.

Holmes practically pounced on the paper, unfolding it. His brows knotted at the sight of it, and without a word he passed it to John. John felt his own face fold in confusion at the little stick figures on the page.

“A child’s drawing?” John said, handing the paper back to Holmes.

“My thoughts exactly, Doctor Watson,” Cubitt said. “But then I thought, how could my Elsie, my bright, smart Elsie, be so disturbed by such childish scribbles? Then, a week later, I saw similar figures written on the side of the barn, and was able to copy them down before Elsie saw them and had them cleaned. There were two more since then, the last being just yesterday. With each new episode, poor Elsie became more and more anxious, and spoke less and less. I became convinced that this was something that was important to her, that disturbed her greatly, and I can’t bear to see her so perturbed. I knew I would need to ask for help on this issue, so I copied them down exactly, and brought them to you.”

“Give them to me,” Holmes said, and Cubitt obliged, pulling a number of pages from his breast pocket. It seemed to John that Cubitt’s tension eased a little as he handed the papers over to Holmes, as though the papers carried weight beyond their actual appearance.

Holmes immediately began to study the papers, laying them all out on the desk and staring at them, his eyes leaping from page to page. The minutes stretched out.

“Do you think-” Cubitt began, only to be hushed into silence by Holmes.

John thought to himself that Holmes had clearly not studied Victorian etiquette, and realized that he must take that role. “Shall I ring for tea, Mr. Cubitt?”

“Thank you, no,” Cubitt replied, staring at Holmes. “I should catch the next train home. As you can imagine, I’m concerned about leaving my Elsie’s side for very long.”

“We’ll be in contact shortly,” John said, rising with Cubitt and shaking his hand. He tilted his head towards Holmes and said, “He simply needs time to… think.”

He wished he was as confident as his voice let on. Holmes hadn’t moved, and seemed frozen in time, staring at the papers.

John showed Cubitt to the door and stood with him on the kerb as they waited for the cab to come around. Cubitt did not seemed to be eased by the sharing of his burden; he was still tense, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I’m sorry for your troubles,” John said helplessly. There were some times, he thought, when etiquette really was a useful thing in uncomfortable situations.

“I thank you for your help, Doctor, and for Mr. Holmes as well,” Cubitt said. “Sir, be honest with me – am I overreacting? Are these scribbles mere child’s play, and my response unnecessary?”

Cubitt was looking at him with a restrained desperation – but John wasn’t sure if he was desperate to be told his fears were foundless, or that they were genuine.

“I know you know your wife,” John said, choosing his words carefully. “And if she seems fearful at the sight of these letters, then your fear is legitimate. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing, trying to help. Even if these letters mean nothing, you’ve tried to help and she will be grateful to you for that.”

“I hope you’re right, Doctor Watson. Thank you.” Cubitt looked inward for a moment. “My poor Elsie. I’d do anything to keep her from harm, or even the slightest inconvenience.” Cubitt looked up at John. “You’re not a married man, sir?”

“Ah. No,” John said, taken aback.

Cubitt clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “The best I can wish you, sir, is that someday you find someone that makes you as happy as my Elsie has made me.”

“Thank you,” John said.

The cab pulled up, and Cubitt shook John’s hand. “And do you think your friend can solve this issue?”

“I think if anyone on earth can, it will be him,” John said.

**

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date April 28, 1895 – Day 15_

_It’s been a few days since Cubitt was here and initiated this case, and Holmes is completely wrapped up in it. The polite way to say it is that his focus on the case is admirable. The other way to say it is that he’s been staring at the pages nearly nonstop for three days._

_It seems pretty clear that he believes the drawings to be a code of some sort, and he’s trying to crack it. At least that’s what I’ve gathered – he hasn’t really talked about it. Or stopped to eat, or sleep. He’s gone through heaps of paper, scribbling and muttering, and scratching out, and then crumpling it up and throwing it aside. We have kindling for the fire for at least a month now. The original drawings are pinned all over the wall – Mrs. Hudson pitched a very polite fit when she saw it – and when he’s not scribbling potential answers he’s staring._

_I keep reminding myself that I have my own work to do, and that I’m getting dreadfully behind my schedule. But there’s a large part of me that doesn’t want to leave the flat. It’s partly worry for him, that he’ll keel over from lack of sleep or food, but if I’m being honest, I want to be around when he figures it out. Will he jump up and shout “Eureka!” like Archimedes? Will there be a clap of thunder and lightning?_

_I’m being stupid. Tomorrow morning, first thing: Whittington Hospital._

**

John had looked forward to his first trip on the very new Underground, opened to the public only five years earlier and the beginnings of the public transportation movement. Thanks to the Underground, common people could get across the city at a relatively low cost. It was revolutionary.

It was also smoky, rocky, and completely uncomfortable.

John was still feeling queasy when he disembarked at Baker Street. As he walked up the street he took some deep breaths, trying to push back the nausea. Normally he had a strong stomach but that experience was a bit much to ask of his inner ear and gut.

He was still dizzy and sick when he came up to the flat, so it took him a few moments to take in the sight of Holmes, lying on the divan, his left sleeve rolled up and his right hand holding a needle.

“What the hell are you doing?” John shouted.

Holmes startled, but only a little. He made no attempt to hide the needle. “Ah, Watson. I see that your trip to Whittington Hospital was a success, but that the Underground did not agree with you.”

“Don’t try to distract me,” John said. He realized that he was close to snarling, and he didn’t care. “What are you doing? Put that down, immediately.”

Holmes looked down at the needle, then back at John with some confusion. “Just a small dilute solution of cocaine, my dear Doctor, I mixed it myself. I use it often as an enhancer of my thinking, when a resolution to a problem is elusive. It clears the thought patterns beautifully.”

John knew, intellectually, that cocaine and other hard drugs were in relatively accepted use during this era. He knew that cocaine and morphine were common ingredients in many household medicines – even in children’s cough syrup. The pendulum of public distaste for such drugs would not swing for several years to come. He knew that what Holmes was doing was hardly cause for alarm for a contemp; that if Mrs. Hudson were to walk in on this scene, she would likely simply shake her head and go about her business.

But all he could see was the needle filled with the cloudy liquid, just a hair’s breadth from the delicate veins of Holmes’ arm, only a moment away from the liquid mixing in with his blood.

Before he could stop himself, John strode forward and yanked the needle from Holmes’ hand. “You don’t need that stuff,” he said. “It doesn’t actually help and could actually harm that brain of yours.” He slammed the needle onto the mantelpiece, out of Holmes’ reach. He positioned himself between Holmes and the needle, his meaning clear in his physicality: If you try to get that needle, you will have to go through me.

Holmes’ eyes were wide with surprise. “My dear Doctor,” he began.

“What you need is some fresh air, to get out of these stuffy rooms,” John said. “You haven’t left since Cubitt was here. Go put on your coat and hat, and we’ll go up to Regent’s Park for a spell.”

The surprise on Holmes’ face slowly morphed into anger. “I am not a child, Watson. I am a grown man.”

“Doesn’t make you less of an idiot,” John snapped. He stopped short, realizing that he had dropped his Victorian phrasing. He took a deep breath and composed himself. “Your doctor prescribes fresh air. Your coat and hat, sir.”

Holmes’ expression changed again, this time to amusement. He stood and bowed his head to John. “Only an idiot argues with his doctor,” he said. “If you insist.”

As Holmes put on his coat, John wondered if he could find a way to dispose of the needle, but he had won this small victory and decided to leave it for now.

They walked in silence up Baker Street through Clarence Gate into the park. John realized that he was still angry. The incandescent fury had dissipated somewhat, but the ghosts of adrenaline were still coursing through his blood. He could feel Holmes observing him, and tried to calm his breathing, but Holmes said nothing until they passed through the gates to the Park and were on the circle.

“I’m sorry to have angered you, Watson,” Holmes said.

Holmes slipped his hand through John’s arm. John’s shock completely dispersed his anger, then he mentally shook his head. Men were physically more demonstrative in this age; he could see others in the park doing the same and no one was looking askance.

“You believe me to have overreacted,” he said.

“To be frank, yes,” Holmes replied. “I find cocaine to be tremendously stimulating and clarifying to the mind. It can be invaluable to my thought process.”

“You forget, Holmes, I am a medical man,” John said. “I have seen the… longer term effects of usage. I have seen brains completely wasted away on the stuff. Or death in the case of an accidental overdose. My heart fails at the thought of this happening to you.”

“An overdose is quite impossible,” Holmes said. “I do not forget that you are a medical man, but you forget that I am a chemist.”

“You are,” John conceded. “But there are many variables over which you have no control. Foreign ingredients, for example.”

They were at the pond, and paused to look at the ducks for a moment. John was surprised at his own emotion on the issue. Were his instincts telling him that Holmes was a significant influence in this era, and that it was important to dissuade him from a habit that might negatively affect that influence? Or did he simply just-

“Please,” John said.

Holmes’s lips pressed together. “It upsets you that greatly, does it?”

“It does.”

“Then I shall forbear, for the sake of your spleen.”

John laughed, and after a moment Holmes laughed as well. A few moments of silence passed, much more comfortably than before.

“We should have stopped to ask Mrs. Hudson for some stale bread for the ducks,” John said.

“We were somewhat preoccupied when we left,” Holmes said.

“True,” John said. He pointed out at the lake at two huge white birds. “Look, Holmes!”

“Ah, swans,” said Holmes. “Of the family _Anatidae_ within the genus _Cygnus_. Spring is coming, they are looking for a place to nest.”

John had never seen a swan, only pictures in some of his resources on Victorian England. They were much bigger than he had imagined, and ten times more graceful. “Are they common here?”

“Not as common as the ducks,” Holmes said. “There is a black pair that sometimes...”

He fell silent, and John looked up at him. “Sometimes what?”

Holmes was frozen in place, his eyes flicking from the ducks to the swans. “Say that again, Doctor.”

John’s brow knotted. “What?”

“Repeat yourself, kindly, sir.”

“’Sometimes’?”

“No.” Holmes turned to John, and his eyes were dancing. “ _Common_.”

He turned and raced back towards the gate. John blinked and ran after him.

He ran full speed after Holmes, wondering what Holmes was thinking, but it was clear that their conversation had triggered something. He pulled up at 221B just as Holmes was opening the door, and they both clattered up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway, holding a tea tray, and nearly dropped it in surprise when they ran past.

“Good heavens, gentlemen! Whatever is the matter?” she sputtered.

“Apologies, Mrs. Hudson!” John called breathlessly. He nearly ran straight into Holmes, who had stopped short and was now standing in front of the wall where all Cubitt’s pages were pinned.

“I made an error, Watson,” Holmes said. “I had assumed that the dancing men were pictograms, depicting a story. Or that they were like the hieroglyphics of the ancient Egyptians, a language heretofore not known. Since Mrs. Cubitt was American in origin, perhaps a language of one of the peoples that lived there before the white people came. But now I realize – stupid! – that it is a simple representational code, with each figure representing a letter in the English language. If ever I had a fault, my dear Watson, it is that I assume that problems are more complicated than they seem, that those who created the problems are as intelligent as I am.”

“But how did you-”

“Common,” Holmes said, with a sidelong smile. “You said the word ‘common’. Note that there are some figures that appear again and again, sometimes even side by side. What might we deduce about that?”

“Uh,” John said, feeling a bit lost.

“We can deduce that those symbols stand for a letter that is repeated often. And what is the most _common_ letter in the English language?”

The light went on in John’s head, and they said together, “E.”

“And which is the most common symbol in the code?” Holmes said.

John looked the pages over, then pointed. “That one, the one with both arms up.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said. He grabbed a pen from the table and carefully wrote E over each of those symbols. "Now look; we know that these letters were written for Mrs. Cubitt, whose first name is Elsie. There are several repetitions of this sequence of figures, five figures, with the symbol representing E at the beginning and end – here, here, and here. We can safely assume that this sequence is ELSIE, and now we have our L, S, and I. We can now…”

Holmes’ hand moved rapidly, filling in letters, and talking constantly about the logic of solving the code. It reminded John of the crosswords his grandmother had been fond of – though she had done them on her tablet with a letterpen.

Gradually some phrases began to appear:

AM HERE A-E SLANE

COME TO ME ELSIE

ELSIE –RE-ARE TO MEET THY GO-

Holmes and John stared at the messages in horrified silence. They turned to each other.

“We need to get to North Walsham,” John said.

“Yes, immediately,” Holmes said. He darted to the bookshelf. “Hurry and pack, Watson. I believe there is a train leaving St. Pancras within the hour. I will check the schedules and then hail a cab to rush us there. We can telegraph Cubitt from the station.”


	7. “It was not Death, for I stood up”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be Prepared – Blame in the Wrong Place – Windowcases and Widows – Husband Material – Possession and Confession – a Startling Realization

They made it to the station just in time for Holmes to dash off a telegram for Cubitt, and they jumped onto the train mere moments before it pulled out of the station.

“When did you pack?” John said. He was pleased with himself that he had thrown together his bag in short order – the benefits of not having brought much with him. But he had come downstairs to the sight of Holmes holding open the cab’s door, a valise already in hand.

“I keep one packed,” Holmes said. “In my profession, one needs to be prepared for all circumstances at all times.”

“Quite right,” John said.

They fell into silence. John wondered if he should say something to break the quiet, but wasn’t sure what wouldn’t sound trivial in light of the situation they were in – racing to potentially stop a murder. Holmes sat and stared out the window at the scenery rushing past, but John could see a tension in him, as if he were urging the train to go faster by force of will.

They arrived at North Walsham to a grey, cool drizzle of rain. John looked around the milling disembarking passengers to see if someone had been sent for them from the Manor, but gradually the station emptied and there was no one to greet them. He looked at Holmes to see a mirrored look of consternation.

“The station-master,” Holmes said, and strode purposefully into the building. They quickly found him, an older man bent under with age and extraordinary sideburns.

“Has anyone come from Riding Thorpe Manor?” Holmes asked. His tone was agitated and terse; his patience was clearly wearing out.

“Nay. Are you the coppers from London, then? Or the surgeons?”

A cold lump fell into John’s stomach, and Holmes’ face hardened. “Why?”

“Terrible thing, down at the Manor. Inspector just came through from Norwich. One of the oldest families in the county, and now this terrible thing.”

“What. Terrible. Thing,” Holmes said through gritted teeth.

“Why, she shot the squire, sir. Mrs. Cubitt shot Mr. Cubitt dead and then herself. She’s near dead herself, so if you’re the surgeons, you’re only saving her for the gallows.”

John saw Holmes go pale, and felt like he was going to be sick himself. _Dear God, what had happened?_ he thought. “Are there any carriages for hire?” he asked.

The station-master pointed, and John pulled Holmes by the sleeve until he followed. John found himself taking charge of the situation: finding someone who would take them to the Manor, negotiating with the driver, and bundling Holmes and their bags into the carriage.

The journey took over an hour, and John was dimly aware of the beautiful farmland around them, but could not take his eyes from Holmes. Holmes was staring without seeing, leaning his head against the window of the carriage. John started to speak again and again, and again and again found himself without the words to comfort or reassure.

They pulled up to the gates of the Manor, but Holmes did not move, still staring.

“We’re here, Holmes,” John said. Holmes did not respond, and John’s heart fell at the thought of this brilliant man blaming himself for the murder of his client.

“Come on, man, chin up,” he said. He reached out and covered Holmes’ cold hand with his own. “Let’s go see what happened. We can at least find justice for Cubitt.”

Holmes finally looked away from the skyline, and to John, as though he had forgotten John was there. “I failed Cubitt,” Holmes said, and his voice was low and toneless. “I didn’t solve the code fast enough due to my own failings, and the man – _my client_ – is dead because of it.”

“You couldn’t have known that would be the outcome,” John said firmly. “Now come on, you know the local constabulary will get it wrong, and the poor woman will be punished. You know she didn’t do it, Holmes.”

John saw the light go on again in Holmes’ face, and saw determination fill his frame. “You are correct, my dear Watson,” he said. “She couldn’t have done it. The note was clearly from a third party – ‘Elsie, prepare to meet thy God’. She didn’t commit this heinous act, and we shall prove it. You can try to save her life, and I will try to save her from the gallows.”

“You brought the notes?”

“I did. Let’s find this Inspector from Norwich,” Holmes said, and launched himself out of the carriage.

They were admitted into the house by the maid, a pale young thing with tears standing in her eyes. When John explained who they were, she whispered, “I’ll fetch the Inspector for you, sirs,” and fled the foyer.

“We’ll need to question her later,” Holmes said.

“Yes, all the staff,” John said. He looked around the large house and wondered how many staff it would take to run such a place.

A man entered the hall from within the house, his hand already extended to them. “Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson? I am Inspector Martin, of Norwich Constabulary. Your telegram arrived just after I did, Mr. Holmes – Mr. Cubitt was your client, I understand?”

“He was, and I am most distressed to hear of this development,” Holmes said. His voice was strong again, John noted with some relief. “I had hoped to prevent any harm to this household, and am sorry that I arrived too late. This is your case, sir, but I have worked frequently with Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson of Scotland Yard – do you know of them?”

“I do, Inspector Lestrade and I were in fact school-fellows, and we still communicate often. He has frequently mentioned your ability to assist with strange cases, and that your observations are occasionally of assistance.” John felt himself bristling at this diminishment of Holmes’s work, but Holmes showed no reaction, and Inspector Martin carried on. “However, I feel that you will find that this case is too simplistic for you – it is fairly obvious that Mrs. Cubitt shot her husband, and then herself.  She now lies near death, either sooner by her wounds or later by the noose.”

“Nonetheless,” Holmes said calmly, “perhaps I could see the room where it happened. I also have some evidence which might change the outlook of the case – if I may.”

“Of course,” Martin said. “This way, gentlemen.”

As they followed him, John looked around the house. No castle by any definition, but it was a grand house. Clearly the Cubitt family was an old family of the area, with many generations of money showing in the heavy, dark furniture and rich tapestries. Stuffed heads of animals were on the walls, and even though John knew this was a common decoration of the era, he still found them slightly alarming. But all was dusted and clean and well cared for – Mrs. Cubitt had obviously kept her husband’s house in good order.

Martin led them into a large room, clearly the parlour, and there the neatness of the rest of the house was turned upside down. Furniture was overturned, there was a spatter of blood against one wall, and nearly in the centre of the room, lay the body of Hilton Cubitt, a gun only a couple of inches from his cold, stiff hand.

Holmes immediately turned to the corpse, his toolkit in hand, and began the examining, measuring, and inspection of the body that was now familiar to John but no less fascinating. John looked around the room, trying to see if he could use Holmes’ methods to reach his own conclusions. He pointed at the blood splatter on the wall.

“Is that where Mrs. Cubitt fell?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Martin said, and John thought he saw Holmes’ mouth turn up in a small smile. “She is upstairs, with Doctor Reeve from town. Would you like to take her care upon yourself?”

“I am sure she is in good hands with Doctor Reeve,” John said, trying to hide his relief. He had medical experience, but it was twenty-first century experience and he would likely be quite useless to help the woman without the aid of temp gauges and heartmos. “I will consult with him later but for now I will assist Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” Holmes said. He stood and gestured to the body. “Would you examine Mr. Cubitt, please, while I investigate the blood splatter that you noted.”

John crossed to the corpse, but there was no need for a lengthy examination – the bullet hole in the man’s chest was clean and the skin around it bloodless. “He must have died instantly,” John said, “and fallen where he stood.”

“Agreed,” Holmes said from across the room.

“All right,” he said as he stood. “I’ve nothing else to see here. Have you finished as well, Mr. Holmes, or may they have the body taken away now?”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes said, waving a hand distractedly.

There was a bit of noise and confusion for a few minutes, as several men came into the room and attempted to lift the heavy body of the squire with as much dignity as possible. Martin had taken charge of the proceedings, and so John was the only one who noticed Holmes cross over to the window Cubitt had been facing and examining it carefully.

Once the body had been removed, Martin turned to Holmes. “Now then, Mr. Holmes – do you concur with my analysis of the situation?”

Holmes’s body posture seemed casual and uncaring, but John could see a gleam in his eye. “I’m afraid I do not, Inspector Martin,” he said. “Firstly, may I draw your attention to the bullet hole in the window frame, here?”

Martin’s brows knotted and he rushed over to examine the spot. “I see it, sir,” he said haltingly. “This changes the matter greatly, I must admit.”

“And do you see, sir, that the wood of the window frame splintered in the manner that it did, that this bullet must have come from outside the window, and not from Mrs. Cubitt, who was clearly inside?”

“By all that’s holy, Mr. Holmes, you are correct. How did I not see that?”

“Because you didn’t _look_ ,” Holmes said sharply. “I have learned over my years of strange cases, Inspector Martin, to not make conclusions regarding a case until you are in possession of all the facts, otherwise, the facts will align themselves to meet your erroneous conclusions.”

“But Mr. Holmes, if there was a shot fired from the outside, why is the window not broken?”

“Ah! Now you are asking the correct questions, Inspector. To that end, I would like to speak with the household staff, if I may.”

Martin looked as though he was about to protest, but realized that he had little leg to stand on. “There are the cook and the maid, sir, who were the only people in the house when it happened, apart from Mr. and Mrs. Cubitt, of course.”

“Of course,” Holmes said. “Would you have the kindness to ask them in here, please?”

Martin nodded and stepped out, leaving John and Holmes alone in the room.

“The letters, Holmes?” John whispered.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to tell him about the letters? With the dancing men?”

“All in good time, my dear Watson.” Holmes smiled, John thought a bit shyly. “I will admit I have a flair for the dramatic with cases, Watson – do forgive me my small pleasures.”

John found himself grinning at Holmes, as Holmes grinned back. Then Holmes’ eyes darted to the door, and the grin fell away like a curtain, leaving a stern expression. John saw Martin returning with two women, and willed his own smile away.

Martin introduced the women as Mrs. Perry, the cook, and Brigit, the maid.  Mrs. Perry was a sparse, gaunt woman in her sixties, and John wondered if she ever ate anything she cooked. Brigit, on the other hand, was round-faced and had large blue eyes and blonde hair pulled neatly back under a cap; she looked like she would normally be a merry girl, if not for present circumstances. Martin found two chairs for them to sit, and Holmes and John sat opposite them.

“Ladies, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson. We are investigating this murder. Now, quickly, tell us what happened,” Holmes said sharply – a little too sharply, John thought, as Brigit startled a little and she applied her wrung out handkerchief to her eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” John said, more to Brigit than to Mrs. Perry, as Mrs. Perry looked like she had more steel in her. “We just need to find out what happened. Tell us everything you remember.”

Brigit and Mrs. Perry glanced at each other. Mrs. Perry patted Brigit’s hand, and suddenly John liked Mrs. Perry a lot more. “Well now, sir, I’ll start, and Brigit can fill in what I miss. We were both asleep in our rooms upstairs - our rooms are right next to each other, mind. And we heard something, a loud noise like an explosion, and then nothing. I called out to Brigit, ‘Did you hear that?’ and she said, ‘Yes’, and we decided to go downstairs and see.”

“I was shaking like a leaf, I don’t mind saying, Doctor Watson,” said Brigit, finally finding her voice.

“So we went downstairs, and went into the parlour, and there lay Mr. Cubitt, stretched out on the floor, and Mrs. Cubitt was huddled up by the window there, and she was moaning so I knew she was alive. I told Brigit to go see to Mrs. Cubitt, and I took the candle there and looked at Mr. Cubitt, and I saw that he was quite past the help of God or man.”

“Which candle?” Holmes said.

“That one there, that now stands on the sideboard, where I left it.”

“And where was it before you picked it up?”

“On the table, the large one.”

“The one that stands between Mr. Cubitt and the window?”

“Aye, sir.”

Holmes jumped up and examined the candle carefully for a moment, then returned to his chair. “Go on. Mrs. Cubitt?”

“So I went to Mrs. Cubitt, and Brigit says to me, ‘She’s been shot too’, and I saw she was right, and I told Brigit to go call for the doctor and the police.”

“And did you close the window?”

“I did, sir, the wind was blowing hard into the room and I didn’t want the cold to get into her wound.”

Holmes smiled and nodded small to Inspector Martin, who was standing with his mouth hanging open. But Holmes did not revel in his small victory, and pressed on. “Now, you said you were woken by a loud noise. Did you hear one report, or two?”

“Just the one, sir,” Brigit said, and Mrs. Perry nodded.

“Could the loudness of the sound be explained by the fact that it was two gunshots, at the same time?”

Brigit shrugged, glancing shyly between Holmes and John. “I’m not sure, sir. I never heard a gun fired inside a house before, just out in the fields, like. I can only say that it was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Holmes nodded sharply and said, “Thank you,” and then “Inspector Martin.” The two men went over to the window frame to examine the bullet hole more carefully. John saw the women blink in confusion, not realizing that they had been dismissed. Once again, John saw that it was his turn to use his Victorian etiquette skills.

“Ladies, you have been most helpful,” he said politely as he rose. Mrs. Perry and Brigit stood, and Brigit smoothed her apron down over her hips.

“Do you really think Mrs. Cubitt shot Mr. Cubitt, Doctor Watson?” Brigit said, her eyes wide.

Thinking it was best to not give anything away, he said, “We will see, Brigit, once Mr. Holmes and Inspector Martin have finished their investigation.”

“I can’t believe it, myself,” Brigit said. “They were terribly devoted to each other, Doctor Watson.”

“So I understand,” John said. He glanced over at Holmes and Martin, wanting to hear their conversation.

“Come on, girl,” Mrs. Perry said. “Let the gentlemen get back to their work.”

“Do excuse me, Doctor Watson,” Brigit said, with a little curtsy. She patted at her hair, tucking it under her cap. “Oh, I must look a fright, I haven’t had a moment today to fix my hair properly.”

“Not at all,” John said automatically.

Mrs. Perry plucked at Brigit’s sleeve, with a glare at the girl that would have frightened John out of his wits if it had been directed at him. “Come along, Brigit.”

Brigit directed another smile at John as she and Mrs. Perry turned and left the room. John heard the women whispering at each other, Mrs. Perry’s voice more of a hiss and Brigit’s a giggle. Belatedly he realized that Brigit had been flirting with him. _Oh God_ , he thought. He supposed that by Victorian standards, he would be excellent husband material – single, a doctor. Had he responded inappropriately? Should he have flirted back, or thwarted Brigit more clearly? This was something his etiquette training had not covered.

He turned towards Holmes and Martin, to see Holmes facing him with an inscrutable look on his face. “When you’re quite ready, Doctor,” he said flatly, “would you like to join us while I show Inspector Martin the letters?”

John hurried over to Holmes and Martin, sorry to have made Holmes impatient. Holmes was laying out the letters with the dancing men figures, and John guessed that Holmes wanted to move on to the next stage of the case. Quickly, Holmes walked Martin through the story of his client’s issue, and then through solving the code of the letters. When he got to the final one, ‘Elsie prepare to meet thy God’, Martin huffed out a heavy sigh.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I most certainly agree with your hypothesis – there must have been a third person shooting. The writer of these letters must have shot from outside the window, wounding poor Mrs. Cubitt and killing Mr. Cubitt. But how can we ever discover the whereabouts of the man? I assume it is the man named here, Abe Slane?”

“Exactly. And to bring him here is a simple matter. Ask the-” Holmes briefly glanced at the door where Brigit and Mrs. Perry had gone, then back to Martin. “Ask the stableboy to take a message to the farm belonging to a man named Elridge. I will compose it while he prepares a horse.”

Martin agreed and stepped out of the room, and John found paper and pen at the dead man’s desk. Holmes sat with the letters in front of him, and shortly had created a coded letter of his own, with dancing men relaying a short message. John understood the code well enough now to read its message: “Come at once.”

“Do you think he will, Holmes?” John asked.

“Of course,” Holmes said blandly. “He believes himself to have already succeeded. I think between the three of us we should be able to subdue him.”

The stable boy came and went, taking the message with him, and they settled down to wait. At one point Martin offered to send for tea, but Holmes refused sharply, with no explanation. John felt tense and nervous, thinking back to the incident with Jefferson Hope which so nearly got out of control.

In the end, it was easy. After some time, they saw a man sauntering up the road to the house, and he barely had set foot inside before Martin had the cuffs on him. John was glad to see the man surrender immediately, sitting sadly with his manacled hands dangling between his knees.

“Well now, sir, you’ve caught me, and I suppose you know that I was here last night. I assume the squire’s dead?”

“He is,” Holmes said.

“Well, he fired at me too, so you can’t blame me for firing.”

“Of course he fired at you,” John snapped, peeved at the man’s blasé attitude toward killing an innocent man. “You were standing at his window in the middle of the night.”

“And trying to pull his wife through the window,” Holmes added.

Slade stared at Holmes. “How did you know that, sir?” he said.

“Some of her hairs were caught on the side of the window,” Holmes said. “You came to reason with her, ask her to come away with you, but she refused. When reason failed, you tried force.”

“She’s _my_ Elsie,” Slade retorted. “She was promised to me back in America, and she’s still mine now.”

“She married Mr. Cubitt, not you,” John snapped. The man’s entitlement was deeply nauseating to John; it might have been appropriate for this era, but John’s modern sensibilities balked at it.

“But she sent for me,” Slade said, his voice rising. “I got a note from her, just now, telling me to come.”

“That note was from me,” Holmes said. “I deduced your code and wrote the note. Mrs. Cubitt lies upstairs, near death. Your bullet struck her on its way to killing Mr. Cubitt.”

Slade stared in horror and disbelief at Holmes, then at Inspector Martin and John. He saw affirmation in their eyes, and put his face in his hands and wept.

**

Holmes was unusually silent on the train back to London. John had thought he would have wanted to go over the case, possibly explain his thought process; he seemed very fond of doing so.

“Fascinating case, Holmes,” he said, hoping to get him started.

Holmes interrupted his gaze out the window of the train and fixed John with a glare. “Fascinating? What an unusual perspective, Watson. My client is dead – I couldn’t save him in time.”

_Ah_ , John thought sadly. “No one else could have solved the code at all, Holmes,” he said.

“And yet my client met his end at the hands of a jealous, petty man. I appreciate your efforts to reassure me,” (though John didn’t think he sounded very appreciative) “I still failed Mr. Cubitt. And Mrs. Cubitt, by extension.”

“Ah, but Holmes,” John said. “Without your efforts, Mrs. Cubitt would be hanged unjustly for the murder of her husband. Mr. Cubitt would not have wanted that for his wife.”

“The man’s dead,” Holmes snapped. “What does he care now?”

Some part of John told him to shut up and let Holmes mope, but he was warming to his theme. Time travel had made him quite pragmatic about fate and destiny. “If Mr. Cubitt hadn’t come to you with his concerns, you wouldn’t have taken him on as a client. You wouldn’t have solved the code, and you wouldn’t have known who the murderer was or how to bring him in for arrest. Mrs. Cubitt will recover, but she will recover to health and not to the gallows.”

“She is still a widow.”

“True. But she can live knowing that her husband loved her and had concern enough for her to come to you.”

Holmes snorted, his face twisted with scorn. “Love. What a romantic creature you are, Watson.”

“Yes, love. Mr. Cubitt’s love for his wife was obvious, and it is what drove him to bring the letters all the way to London to you.”

“And what of Slade, and his love for Mrs. Cubitt?”

John’s mouth twisted in memory. “That’s not love. That’s possessiveness, jealousy.”

“Well, then, why did love not impede the flight of the bullet? If Mrs. Cubitt loved her husband so much, why did the power of her love not freeze the bullet in midair, before hitting her husband? I wonder at you, Doctor – what a tender world you imagine. Love didn’t help keep them together – he’s dead. Love didn’t help them at all. Now, in God’s name, let me in peace.”

Holmes wrapped his cloak even more tightly around himself, and curled himself inward and towards the window. This signalled the beginning of another depressive episode, John was sure, but he found himself far from irritated. He looked over at Holmes with wry amusement, then turned to his own thoughts.  

He chuckled to himself at  Holmes’ image of a bullet frozen in midair by the power of love. Well, if anyone could do it, it would have been Mr. Cubitt; even from John’s brief time with him it was obvious he loved his wife very much. Mrs. Cubitt had regained consciousness while he and Holmes were there; she wept bitterly at the news of her husband’s death. So she had loved him too.

John turned his thoughts to Slade’s arrest. Thank goodness it had gone smoothly, the man manacled and giving up the fight immediately. He remembered Hope’s arrest and how it had so nearly gone south, charging at Holmes like that. What if Slade had been suspicious of the note he thought to be from Elsie Cubitt? What if he had brought his gun, and had had it loaded and ready to fire when he arrived? What if Holmes had been in the line of fire?

John saw himself charging at Hope. He imagined Slade firing at Holmes, saw himself charging Slade…

John’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with realization. He would do that, he suddenly knew with great certainty. He would have charged a man with a gun pointed at Holmes. Without thought, without hesitation, and knowing the risk.

_Oh God,_ he thought _. I’m falling for him._

He looked at Holmes, whose face was leaned against the train window, his expression lined and stoney, and John only felt a wave of feeling and tenderness, followed by a wash of dread.

_I love him. Oh God. This is bad._


	8. “I had been hungry, all the Years”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rules and Risks – Planning – Distractions – Moderation Scorned – Ruffled Hair – Yearning and Laundry – Resolutions

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date April 30, 1895 – Day 17_

_What have I done. I can’t believe this. I can’t fall in love with the man._

_From the first day you start in the time travel program at Oxford, right on day one, they tell you – ‘Don’t get involved with anyone in the past’. You can put the whole jump into jeopardy – hell, you can put all of_ _time_ _into jeopardy._

_Calm down, Watson. The net was built to prevent divergence. It doesn’t open if there’s a risk of divergence. Bahdri set up this drop, and he’s the best there is._

_But Bahdri can’t predict everything, can he? Would he have known that I’d run into Holmes at St. Bart’s? Or that we’d take up rooms together? Or that Holmes would start involving me in the cases? Or that –_

_This is ridiculous. It doesn’t even matter whether there’s a risk of divergence. I am in an era where homosexuality is illegal. Even my hinting at my feelings for Holmes could land me in jail, and I’d miss the drop and I’d be trapped here. Even Professor Dunworthy couldn’t get me out of jail._

_Moreover, Holmes doesn’t feel the same way. He was very clear about it, wasn’t he? He thinks love is a useless emotion. He’s a man that has built up rational thinking as his life’s work, his personal foundation – he doesn’t believe in love._

_Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’ve fallen for him because he’s unavailable, emotionally. He doesn’t feel like that for anyone, man or woman. He might not even be gay._

_So smarten up, John. You’ve been sent here to do a job – stop mooning about and do it._

**

John rose early the next day to visit the Royal Free Hospital. As he crossed through the lounge, he saw Holmes lying on the divan, curled up with his back to the room. He had clearly been there all night.

When John returned, Holmes was still on the divan. A tea tray lay on the table behind him, the tea cold and puckered in the cup. John forced down his instinct to ask Holmes to eat, and continued to his room without a word.

**

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date May 3, 1895 – Day 20_

_Visited Royal Free today; morgue small and damp. The hospital administrator was brusque, spent all of ten minutes with me. Fair enough – he’s a busy man I suppose. I’m sure the smell of alcohol on his breath had nothing to do with it. Holmes could probably figure it out._

**

For two days, Holmes smoked constantly. Pipe smoke filled the flat. Mrs. Hudson waved her arms about, then opened the windows wide.

“That amount of tobacco can’t be good for you, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Watson?”

“Well, moderation would be advisable, yes,” John said, reluctant to be drawn into conversation.

“Moderation,” Holmes spat, and turned away from them.

John found himself smiling, and turned away himself, forced the smile off his face.

**

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date May 7, 1895 – Day 24_

_It is interesting that a hospital of that size would have a morgue so small – only space for five corpses. The administrator was quite keen to show me the crematorium though. I wonder if they simply hasten or even skip autopsies and just burn the bodies. Holmes would be terribly upset at the loss of evidence in the case of a murder._

**

“Ah, Watson,” Holmes said, putting on his gloves as John walked into the parlour. “This is fortuitous. I’ve just been called about a murder victim at Whittington Hospital. You can visit the morgue there while I examine the body. It’s a very modern morgue, I’ve been there several times.”

John pushed down the double beat of his heart, and said, “That’s unfortunate, Holmes. I was there last week, and I am due at South Western Hospital today. My apologies.”

Holmes’ face flickered and then returned to its usual stern lines. “Unfortunate indeed.”

Holmes turned to go, and John spoke without meaning to. “It is a very well run morgue, though.”

Holmes hesitated, his back to John. “Glad you agree,” he said, and left.

**

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date May 13, 1895 – Day 30_

_This is the most boring assignment in the history of history. Right now I hate Oxford, time travel, Mr. Dunworthy, and all morgues in England both now and in the future._

_I’ve seen twelve morgues so far and they all have one thing in common – dead people. Some are dingy, some have the electrical lighting that is so new right now, some have gas lighting that just adds to the stink._

_Who in their right mind would FUND a study of this? I never asked Mr. Dunworthy._

_And the awful thing is that I’ve tons more to do. I haven’t even written up proper reports on the ones I’ve seen. And I’ve eighteen more on the list, including one in Dublin, for God’s sake._

_I’ve caught up tremendously, though. I was supposed to have done several of them in my first two weeks, but that was taken up by getting involved in the cases. I’ve done all the major ones in London, I think._

_I don’t think it would cause too much delay if I did just one case with Holmes. He keeps asking me along, but less and less lately. And I think I’ve gotten over my infatuation. You spend 24/7 with a bloke like him, and if you’re a randy bloke like me you’re bound to get the hots for him. But I think enough time has passed and I’m over this. I’m good. One case, then back to this mind-blowingly boring work. Just one case._

**

“Get down, Holmes!”

John shoved Holmes against the wall as he heard the buzz of the bullet passing them. Holmes started to stand, and John, incredulous, pushed him back down. “Stay down, you-”

“It’s all right, Watson,” Holmes whispered, grinning. He lifted his head and shouted, “Give up, Carmichael! That was your last bullet, wasn’t it? And you’re carrying a Webley number one revolver, which is difficult to load quickly, even if you had more bullets. Which you don’t. So put the gun down and surrender.”

A short pause, then the hard clink of metal hitting the cobblestones. “Damn you, Holmes!”

Holmes turned to John and said, “And Inspector Lestrade should be along soon – ah, there he is.”

A second later John heard the sound of running footsteps, of the policemen calling to each other as they entered the alley.

“Freeze, Carmichael!” Lestrade shouted. “You are arrested, for treason against Her Majesty.”

Amid the chaotic shouting and scrabble of Carmichael’s arrest, John looked up at Holmes and saw that his hair was ruffled, disheveled after their chase and John’s push.

John swallowed hard. He imagined himself smoothing that hair back, seeing Holmes’ eyes close in bliss. Kissing his hairline, kissing his soft –

“Well done, Watson,” Holmes said. He ran his hand over his hair, setting it back into place, putting his hat on. “Come on, then. Lestrade will want our statements.”

**

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date May 19, 1895 – Day 36_

_Damn it damn it damn it._

_I thought I was over this and I’m not, I’m not.  God I want him. I mean yes, I want him, I want to touch him, touch his skin, his –_

_But I want to just hold him too. Sit on that divan with him and hold him, listen to him go on about his cases and tobacco ash and blood spatters while he lies in my arms. I want to make him laugh, see what he looks like when he laughs._

_I don’t just want to sleep with him. I want to wake up with him._

_But I can’t do this. He can’t be mine, not ever._

_Damn it damn it damn –_

**

“We’re certainly honoured that you chose to visit us, Doctor Watson,” the administrator said. “This way, sir. You must be excited about starting your own hospital in – Glasgow, was it?”

“Yes, Glasgow,” John said. This was the last hospital in London. One more morgue in London, then he’d plan the trip to Dublin. “It’s been truly-”

He was about to lie and say ‘fascinating’, but then the door to the morgue swung open to reveal Holmes, up to his elbows in a corpse, with Gregson looking faintly ill on the other side of the table.

“Oh! Doctor Watson!” Holmes said. “I wondered why we haven’t run into each other before this. Have a look at this fellow, would you? It’s a very rare case of _situs transversus_ ; all his organs are reversed in his body, do you see? And I’m trying to demonstrate to Inspector Gregson that the murderer knew that.”

**

John closed the door to his bedroom and leaned against it. Why in heaven’s name had that turned him on so much? He must be some kind of pervert, to find Holmes so attractive in that morgue. Had the Victorian era made him into a deviant?

He clenched his fist, then carefully relaxed it. No, it wasn’t the blood. It was the sight of Holmes in his shirtsleeves. Granted, he had a waxed apron over his clothes, but his jacket was off and his sleeves carefully rolled up past his elbow. And while his forearms had been covered in blood, the blood hadn’t hidden the wiry musculature of Holmes’ arms.

That combined with the light in Holmes’ eyes when he had a mystery to solve…

John groaned and began to pull off all his layers of tweed. He had to get over this, he had to. He just needed to relieve the pressure a little bit.

He stripped down to his muslin undergarments, then palmed his cock through the thin material. God, he was already more than half hard, probably had been for most of the day. He rubbed again, feeling his cock fill and harden. He tried to remember the last time he’d masturbated, and the answer was simply _too long_.

It was early May, but the room was cool and raised gooseflesh along his arms and legs. He pulled off his undergarments and slid under the chilly sheets of his bed. His erection briefly flagged, but a couple of strokes had him in a rock hard condition again.

“Just a bit, just a bit,” he whispered to himself. He allowed all his fantasies about Holmes to well up in his brain: his long, delicate hands, the grey eyes which changed colour depending on the lighting in the room, his long neck… John imagined Holmes tilting his head back and allowing John to kiss and lick that expanse of neck.

He grunted, finding himself closer already than expected. A drop of precum appeared at the end of his cock, and he wiped it around the head. His hips jerked up, and he sped up his strokes. He was close already, so close to coming all over the place, so close –

His hand stilled suddenly as his brain tripped over an unwelcome thought. How would he clean himself up when he came? The sheets, his handkerchief, the undergarments? Mrs. Hudson did all the laundry. He couldn’t bear the idea of the evidence of his self-pleasuring being seen by anyone else, much less someone he had to look in the eye every day. No disposable tissues invented yet either.

He let go of his cock, and turned over, sighing. He couldn’t do it. No wonder Victorians were so repressed, if they couldn’t have a wank with some degree of privacy.

He waited for ages until his erection melted away and his hands stopped shaking. Then he pulled on his nightshirt and brought his journal into bed with him. His arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds apiece as he lifted his pen to paper.

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date May 21, 1895 – Day 38_

_I feel like the most pathetic man in London right now._

_I’ve gone and fallen for someone I can’t have. It’s impossible on so many levels._

_But I’ve never felt like this, ever before. That may well be because I can’t be with him, that his unattainable nature makes him more attractive – nonetheless._

_So. To hell with the morgue study. I won’t go to St. Vincent’s in Dublin as I’d planned. I’ll pay someone like Charles or Mika to come and finish it. My time here is limited – was always limited. I need to go back soon, and I’ll never see him again. So I’m going to spend as much time with him as possible before I go, to drink up as much of Sherlock Holmes as I’m allowed to have. Then I’ll go back, and lose myself in my work, and try to forget._

He put the book aside and lay down. He didn’t think he’d sleep but he did: a strange tattered sleep, filled with dreams of Mr. Dunworthy frowning, of Mary in a Victorian wedding dress, and of Holmes saying a word he’d never heard him say before – “John.”

In the morning he got up, feeling puffy and aching, and splashed water on his face. He dressed carefully, and headed downstairs.

Holmes, of course, was already up, reading the newspaper in his dressing gown, and John felt himself smile fondly and feel a bit better at this now-familiar sight.

“Ah, good morning Watson. Where are you off to today?” Holmes said around his pipe.

“Nowhere today,” John said. He poured himself a cup of tea from the pot, still steaming; Mrs. Hudson must have only just left it. “Tea?”

“Thank you,” Holmes said, with his nose still in the paper. John handed Holmes his tea, and Holmes folded the paper and gave it to John, his long finger pointing to a specific ad in the classifieds.

“What do you think of that, Doctor Watson? If you know anything about it, you could make your fortune!”

John looked down at the paper.

_“Anyone of the family surname of Garridebs is to write to Mr. John Garrideb of Topeka, Kansas, care of the Langham Hotel, London.”_


	9. “I stepped from Plank to Plank”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unusual Names – Violent Mood Swings – an Impossible Task – Evidence of Lying – an Extraordinary Home – Research over Tea

“An unusual name,” John said, throwing the paper back at Holmes. “Mr. John Garridebs has his work cut out for him.”

“Ah, but he has already been successful, in part,” Holmes said. He waved a piece of paper at John. “Our client, a Mr. Nathan Garridebs, here in London, has already been in contact with him, and with me. The trick is to find a third of their kind – that is our challenge, Watson.”

“A third?”

Before Holmes could explain, they heard the bell of the front door, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice mixed with a man’s sharp voice, the American accent clear even from a distance.

“I believe Mr. John Garrideb has come to call,” Holmes murmured.

He and Holmes stood to receive their guest, and John felt his skin prickling in anticipation of another case with Holmes.

John had already learned enough from Holmes to have an understanding of body language, but he didn’t need to be a master of deduction to see that John Garrideb was angry. John inched slightly closer to Holmes, feeling protective from the moment the man walked in the room.

The man was portly and rosy cheeked, and if he was smiling, he would doubtless make an affable image. But he wasn’t smiling: rage was simmering under the glossy surface of Victorian etiquette. “Sherlock Holmes?” he said, looking between Holmes and John.

“That is I,” Holmes said smoothly, seeming to ignore the man’s mood. “This is Doctor John Watson, my friend and colleague. And you, I presume, are Mr. John Garrideb?”

“The same,” Garrideb said. “I have just come from the rooms of Mr. Nathan Garrideb, who told me he had hired you. And I must say that I do not understand why he needed to involve you in a private matter. I don’t want the police involved.”

“And they are not involved,” Holmes said. “I occasionally work with Scotland Yard, but I do not work for them. Mr. Nathan Garrideb involved me because he thought I could assist with your search. You two gentlemen have a difficult task ahead of you, and I hope I can expedite the process.”

Garrideb’s face cleared, but John still felt uneasy; he could still see tension running well below the surface. “Ah! Well, that does explain things, and sets my mind at ease.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” Holmes said, and John could tell from the tone of his voice that he was also not taken in by the man’s change of attitude. “Now please sit. This is an excellent opportunity to bring Doctor Watson up to speed on the case, if you would kindly give him the history. I would also be helped by hearing your perspective, as I have only heard my client’s.”

Garrideb looked at John, a mistrustful and wary look. “I would prefer if-”

“We usually work together,” Holmes said, and his voice brooked no argument. John felt a balloon of warmth fill his chest, and he fought to keep his expression neutral.

“I suppose there’s no reason to be secretive,” Garrideb replied, “and more minds may help the matter.”

“Exactly,” Holmes said. “Please.”

They all sat, and Garrideb made himself comfortable in a way that made John realize that Americans were the same, in all times.

“Well, gentlemen, I hail from Topeka, Kansas, where I hold a law practice. I did very well there, with a number of regular clients and with the respect of the community. There was one gentleman of my acquaintance, an older man, whose name was Alexander Hamilton Garrideb, and he was constantly remarking upon how rare it was to know someone with the same unusual last name as his. On one occasion, he asked me to see if I could find more with the same surname; I did not take his request seriously, and laughed, saying that it would take a great deal of time and searching to find even one more.

“Then last year, the poor old man died, with no relatives alive to comfort him. I mourned the loss of his friendship, but you can imagine my surprise when I learned that I had been named in his will; and not just named, but the sole beneficiary, but with the most extraordinary provision that had ever been heard of. If I were to find three living men with the family name of Garrideb, myself included, then each of us would inherit five million from his estate.”

“Dollars, not pounds, I assume?” Holmes asked.

“Indeed, sir. Such an amount is dizzying, and I still find myself breathless to think of it today. I therefore quit my law practice and began searching in earnest for men named Garrideb.

“I searched all across my homeland, to no avail. Then I remembered that Mr. Garrideb had hailed from England, so I came across about six months ago. And after a great deal of investigation, I found Mr. Nathan Garrideb. He shared my joy at the prospect of such a large fortune, and we committed to working together to find a third of that name.”

“Extraordinary!” Holmes said. He put his palms together, fingertips at his lips, a posture that John knew meant he was thinking. “I would be pleased to be part of such a fascinating story. But, surely, Mr. Garrideb, you would have better luck by placing an advertisement in the papers?”

“I have sir, with no result.”

“A challenging search, indeed,” Holmes said. “Well, I think I have a few means at my disposal that may assist you in your quest. I shall be in touch regularly.” He stood, and Garrideb and John followed. “By the way, Mr. Garrideb, perhaps you should know a colleague and correspondent of mine from Topeka – a Dr. Lysander Starr?”

“Of course! He is well known in the city, and still honoured. I thank you, gentlemen, and wish you good day.”

John closed the door carefully after Garrideb, and looked up at Holmes. He was about to speak, but Holmes raised one finger in the air, until they both heard the door to the street close. Then Holmes put down his hand and said, “Well, Watson?”

“It’s… an extraordinary story, as you said,” John said. He had a feeling he knew what Holmes knew, but wanted him to say, wanted to hear his voice go through his reasoning.

“An extraordinary story indeed,” Holmes said. “Extraordinary… and a falsehood from beginning to end. I have never seen such a collection of lies told in my presence.”

John felt a smile twitch across his face, but suppressed it. “And how did you know he was lying?”

“Simple, my dear Doctor,” Holmes threw himself into his chair and began to count on his fingers. “First, while he is an American, he has not been in England only three months, for all his clothing is English made. No one would have done so unless they had been living here for some time. Second, I know no one by the name of Dr. Lysander Starr in Topeka, Kansas, or anywhere else on the face of this earth, so he does not hail from Kansas as he says. Third, there have been no notices or advertisements placed in the London papers – you know I read them especially for such curiosities. Fourth, and most clearly, his body language gave away his falsity at every turn: the fidgeting of his fingers, the slight sheen of perspiration, the increase in heart rate and blood pressure, which is obvious should you watch the carotid artery carefully, the darting motion of the eyes, particularly to the left. All signs of dissembling.”

“Remarkable,” John said with a grin before he could help himself.

Holmes paused for a millisecond, a hiccup in his thought pattern, then recovered as though nothing had happened. “You are kind, Watson, and I thank you. But it’s grotesquely obvious to anyone who cares to observe. Now, I think that we should pay our client a visit, and see what we can learn from him.”

**

The home of Mr. Nathan Garrideb was like a museum, John thought, but the most crowded, eccentric, discombobulated museum he had ever seen. His brain boggled at the sight of coins, statues, tapestries, engravings and other detritus of history from what seemed like every era of human time.

“Syricusean – of the best period,” said Nathan Garrideb. He was polishing a coin with a piece of leather; clearly a task that their arrival had interrupted and must be completed before any other business could be attended to.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Holmes said. “I prefer to meet my clients in person, wherever possible.”

“And you are kind to come to me. I don’t like to leave my home, you see. So much to do, so much to attend to. Look, this is a statue from the Alexandrian era – isn’t it marvellous! And this vase from the Ming dynasty, I went to tremendous lengths to acquire it. One must attend to such objects from history – _dust may not settle, rust may not invade_.”

_And it is thanks to people like him_ , thought John, _that museums have good collections_. He found himself being drawn to object after object, and had to force himself to return his attention to the matter at hand. Holmes’ eyes were darting about as well, but he didn’t show his distraction outwardly.

“We were paid a visit by your colleague, Mr. John Garrideb,” Holmes said.

“Ah yes,” Garrideb said. “He mentioned he might call.”

John found it privately amusing that this Garrideb, who was now paying particular attention to the engraving on the coin, had probably not noticed that his American namefellow had probably been apoplectic with rage at the time, given how angry he was when he had arrived at Baker Street. He was glad that he and Holmes were representing Nathan and not John Garrideb; he was finding that he liked the present one more and more.

“Mr. Garrideb seemed to prefer that we keep the matter strictly between us two, that we conduct the search personally. But I was loath to spend that amount of time on the issue, time away from my collection. Your name was mentioned to me, Mr. Holmes, as someone who could take on such matters, so I wrote to you directly. What do you think are the chances of success, Mr. Holmes?”

“It will take some work, no doubt,” Holmes replied. “Mr. John Garrideb told us of his… exhaustive efforts in America. Perhaps we can do better here in England.”

“I do hope you are right, Mr. Holmes. Five million dollars! Think of the things I could acquire with those funds! My collection would be the envy of the world!”

There was a crashing knock at the door, and Mr. John Garrideb barrelled into the room, waving a piece of paper. “Look, Mr. Garrideb, I’ve – oh, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson! How fortuitous that you are here as well! It appears as though our search is over – I’ve found him!”

He handed Holmes the paper; Holmes read it swiftly and wordlessly passed it to John:

**_HOWARD GARRIDEB_ **

**_Construction of Agricultural Machinery_ **

_Binders, reapers, steam and hand plows, drills, harrows, farmers’ carts, buckboards,_ _and all other appliances_

“And not too far away too – only in Birmingham!” John Garrideb said. “I’ve already sent inquiries ahead, Mr. Garrideb, and told them that you will meet him in his office tomorrow afternoon at four.”

“Me?” Nathan Garrideb looked up from his work, shocked. “Why me? You are the prime mover of this enterprise?”

“Don’t you think that’s best? I’m an American, with an outlandish tale. You are an Englishman, with impeccable references, with a reputation in London. You are far more likely to be believed than I.”

“I must agree, Mr. Garrideb,” Holmes said. John stared at him with some surprise – he would not have expected Holmes to agree with John Garrideb on any point. “Your word will be believed more than a foreigner, or even a representative like myself.”

Nathan Garrideb bit at his lips, clearly trying to find an excuse that would get him out of going. “I don’t like to leave my-”

“I know, I know, sir, but think of the return on the investment of your time!” John Garrideb said. “Five million – it’s now within our grasp! Only a little effort… and I’ve made such effort already, it’s poor of you to not take on this small, final step!”

“All right, I’ll go. I’ll take the morning train out,” Nathan Garrideb said, reluctance still framing his voice.

“Excellent! I am grateful to you, sir! Send me a telegram upon the conclusion of your meeting, if you would. Then upon your return we shall celebrate our good fortune with Mr. Howard Garrideb!” And with a wave, John Garrideb left, as briskly and noisily as he had entered.

“It would seem that my services are no longer required, Mr. Garrideb,” Holmes said. “Though I am sorry for it; I had wished to spend some time perusing your collection. I am fond of antiquities, and find the pursuit of such intellectual interests fascinating. My friend Doctor Watson is similarly intrigued.”

John flushed at the notion that his enthrallment with the objects around him had been observed, but then he reminded himself that he was standing with the most observant man he’d ever met.

“I would be pleased to show you around the collection now,” said Mr. Garrideb. “It is the very least I can do for the trouble you’ve gone to.”

“I’m afraid we have a pressing appointment shortly, and must depart.” John raised his eyebrows; he was sure there was no appointment. Truth be told, he was a bit disappointed that Holmes was turning down the offer.

Holmes clapped his hands. “I know! Perhaps you would allow us to view the collection while you are at your interview tomorrow. You may be assured that we will leave everything undisturbed, and moreover be a deterrent to any trespasser who might wish to take advantage of your absence.”

“An excellent idea!” Garrideb said. “Come any time before four o’clock, and the landlady will let you in – Mrs. Tennant. Bennet? Henderson? Anyway, the woman downstairs. She has a key.”

“Very well, then,” Holmes said. “All the best for your mission tomorrow. Good day, Mr. Garrideb.”

They all shook hands, and John and Holmes went down to the street. Holmes stood at the kerbside and waved at a hansom cab. They were silent until the cab door was shut and they were underway.

“We are not going to look at his collection tomorrow, are we?” John said.

A smile flickered briefly across Holmes’ face. “Very observant, Doctor,” he said. John tried to not flush at the combination of smile and praise, in addition to Holmes being so close. “What else do you observe? For instance, that advertisement that Mr. John Garrideb brought us.”

John forced his attention back to the paper he still held in his hand. “I know nothing of printing presses,” he said. “Nor ink, nor-”

“Leave all such things to me,” Holmes interrupted. “What else?”

John stared at the paper, a little embarrassed to be put on the spot by Holmes. He tried to think as Holmes would, look for details, something that wasn’t right, something –

“There’s a spelling error, that’s all,” said John.

“Yes?”

“There. Plow, P-L-O-W, not P-L-O-U-G-H.”

“Exactly, Watson. Here is Baker Street.”

John stepped out of the cab, but was surprised that Holmes was not following. “Holmes?”

“I am for Scotland Yard. Tell Mrs. Hudson I shan’t be back for tea.” Holmes knocked on the ceiling of the cab, and it whisked him away.

 


	10. “My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relief and Revelations – Indulgence of Interests – Pirate Blades – the American Way - Unmasked

_Journal Entry, John H. Watson_

_Contemp date May 22, 1895 – Day 39_

_Holmes has been gone for hours now. I’m a little cheesed, to be honest, that he went off without me. But I keep reminding myself to be sensible: he’s not beholden to me. For anything. It’s a wonder he asks me to come out for cases at all – it’s not like I help at all, really. And he knows nothing of my feelings, and even if he did he still owes me nothing._

_God, I have to stop acting like a jealous, spotty teenager._

_So I’ve been intermittently working on my notes for the morgue study, with occasional glances out the window anytime I hear a cab going down the street – which is fairly often._

_Had tea with Mrs. Hudson. A lovely lady – will miss her too._

 

Holmes had not returned by the time night fell. John slept fitfully, half listening for Holmes’ step on the landing, but when he came down for breakfast in the morning, Holmes was there, reading the paper and drinking tea. John tried to not allow his relief show, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was.

“Ah! You’re up, excellent,” Holmes said.

“When did you get in?”

“Quite late, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

John smiled at the wave of happiness sweeping through his body. He poured his tea, turned away to hide it. “Not at all.”

“Get your breakfast, and I will update you with my findings.” Holmes wiggled his tea cup in John’s direction, and John poured more tea. “I went down to Scotland Yard with two questions in mind: why is Mr. John Garrideb lying to us, and why was he insistent upon Mr. Nathan Garrideb taking this afternoon’s appointment in Birmingham. I looked back upon the past cases, the ones which are unsolved or where the perpetrators have not yet been discovered – I have a great interest in such cases. And after only a few hours of research, I found a picture of the Waterloo Road night-club murder a few years back – do you recall it? – where one James Miller, aka Killer Evans, shot Roger Prescott. There was a picture of Killer Evans – who do you imagine he resembles?”

_Just a few hours of research – my God_ , John thought. “John Garrideb?”

“Precisely.”

“So what does he want? Is Mr. Nathan Garrideb in danger?”

“I don’t believe he is in immediate danger, no. If Evans truly wanted him dead, he would be dead by now. So then I looked into the history of Mr. Nathan Garrideb – nothing of particular interest there. Then I checked the past ownership of the most peculiar house in which he lives, and sure enough, the previous owner was the murdered man, Roger Prescott.”

“So Garrideb – I mean Evans – may believe that there is something of interest in the house that Prescott left behind when he was killed?”

“Quite right. Which answers our second question of why he wanted Mr. Garrideb out of the house.”

Realization dawned. “So he created this whole Garrideb story, just to get Nathan Garrideb out of the house?”

“I will give him credit for his imagination.”

“And there is no Howard Garrideb in Birmingham?”

“There is not; Mr. Nathan Garrideb is on a wild goose chase. Evans had the advertisement made up himself.”

John nodded. “The misspelling of ‘plow’ – a mistake that an American would make.”

“Indeed.”

“Should we send word to Nathan Garrideb?”

Holmes checked his pocket watch and shook his head. “No, he will have already left for the station. Moreover, he would be safest well away; if he were to not take his journey to Birmingham, Evans would know the jig is up, and possibly find a more lethal way of getting him out of the way.”

“So what shall we do?”

Holmes tilted his head and smiled. “I thought you wanted to see Mr. Garrideb’s collection, Watson?”

Comprehension dawned, along with a shot of excitement. “Indeed I do. And I believe you wished to as well?”

“Oh, I shall keep you company, if you insist. Though I think we should each bring guns.”

**

They arrived back at Nathan Garrideb’s rooms just after ten o’clock, and were let in by his landlady, whose name turned out to be Smyth.

John fingered the gun in his pocket nervously. “When do you think Evans will come? Or perhaps he has already come and gone?”

“I suspect that Evans will confirm that Garrideb boarded the train to Birmingham, then come here. The train leaves Paddington at eleven.”

“Which leaves us about an hour.”

“Yes.” Holmes quirked a sidelong smile at John. “I am, indeed, interested in looking around as well.”

John laughed, and they both began to prowl around the rabbit warren of desks and cabinets.

“No wonder the man never leaves his rooms,” John said. “He must be terrified of burglars.”

“The average London house-thief would not understand the value of what is here – they would simply regard this as junk. Only aficionados such as ourselves would recognize the treasure here. Although – look! A telephone! A most helpful tool, but I cannot convince Mrs. Hudson to install one at Baker Street; she believes it would electrocute her. Now, Watson, we have a few minutes at least – let us explore.”

John examined coins, books, manuscripts, and fragments of ancient clay pots. All was kept in excellent condition, and would be the envy of any museum. And unlike most collections and even some museums, all the articles appeared to be genuine. Holmes seemed equally fascinated, and John soon lost sight of him as they wandered around Garrideb’s room.

He was examining a Grecian perfume bottle when he heard Holmes call softly, “Watson! Come here, look at this!”

John followed Holmes’ voice until he found him, transfixed by the sight of a sword resting on a long velvet pillow.

“British, early eighteenth century,” Holmes said. “It’s actually seen battle, look.” He pointed at the dings and dents in the metal of the blade. “And the spots of rust – that colour of rust is only made by seawater.” Holmes looked up at John, his eyes dancing. “I do believe it’s a pirate’s sword.”

Holmes was right; John knew because he had seen such swords before, he had held them in his hand. He had been at Cape Fear River, on board Rhett’s flagship, _Henry_ , when it ran aground off the coast of South Carolina. He had had the liver scared out of him at the sound of the cannons roaring at each across the expense of water between the two ships. He had briefly glanced Bonnet, the infamous pirate commander, as he was taken by the British. John had slipped away from the celebrations of the victors to a small cave east of the beach, and saw the glittering of the net opening, and emerged, sweating and bloody and filthy, back into Oxford in 2058.

He looked up at Holmes’ eyes, glittering with excitement, and wasn’t sure what was more mesmerizing – the memory, or the childlike look on Holmes’ face.

There was a scratching and a click from the door downstairs, and the mood broke. “He’s here,” Holmes whispered. “Hide yourself, Watson, and gun at the ready.”

They crouched in the shadow created by a large wardrobe, which would keep them hidden but still able to view the room. Holmes put a long finger to his lips, and John saw that the light in his eyes was still bright, though now it was not due to the entrancement of a pirate’s sword, but because of the mystery on the brink of being solved.

Evans, formerly known to them as John Garrideb, entered the room. He took no efforts to move quickly or quietly, clearly confident in the knowledge that he was alone. He strode up to a desk that was in the corner of the room and pushed it out of the way. The carpet underneath was efficiently rolled back to reveal a trap door.

“Oh,” breathed Holmes.

Evans was laughing to himself as he lifted the latch for the door and carefully lowered himself down until he was no longer in sight. John startled slightly when Holmes’ cool finger touched his wrist. “Now,” he whispered, holding his own gun up by his head.

They moved silently from their hiding space to the trap door. John’s heart was hammering with exhilaration as he positioned himself opposite Holmes on the lip of the hole in the floor.

_This is the best thing I’ve done in my life_ , John thought, just as Holmes said loudly, “Come out, Mr. Garrideb – or should I say ‘Killer’ Evans.”

Evans’ head popped up out of the hole, his face already contorting from surprise into anger. “Well, Mr. Holmes, you have found me out,” he snarled.

“We have, indeed,” Holmes said. “Come out, and you shall explain yourself to the police.”

“Let us discuss this,” Evans said. His face smoothed into an ingratiating but unconvincing smile. “It took me planning for months to get that old codger out of this place. My former colleague and then my enemy, Roger Prescott, lived here, and had to leave his things behind. Look! Here’s his printing press, the best in Europe, and thousands of pounds already printed. No banker could tell the difference. Take what you wish, and let me run.”

“No thank you,” Holmes said calmly. “I know you hail from America, but that’s not the way things are done here in England.”

“Is that so?” Evans growled.  “Let me show you how it’s done in the States.”

Evans jerked, and there was a flash and a roar in the room. John smelt the sting of gunpowder, then pain like a sledgehammer slammed into his leg and he fell.

Everything was chaos then, with the cracking of furniture and bodily thumps, and over it all, an enraged wordless scream. John’s hands pressed against the fire in his leg, feeling the stickiness of the blood on his hands. He remembered when he was shot in Afghanistan, feeling the blood sink out of him and taking all his will and hope with it. He remembered being evacuated, each jostle of the stretcher sending a new wave of pain through his body. Fever and infection made the days blend together, until he saw Colin Templar bending over him, dressed in a contemporary nurse’s uniform, saying, “You missed the rendezvous, Mr. Watson. I’ve come to take you home.”

But as the memories flooded through him, he realized that the pain was nowhere near as bad as it had been that day. There wasn’t the same torrent of blood between his fingers. He peered down at his leg, carefully moving his hands away from the wound. His trouser leg was ripped, with gunpowder tracing the edges, and there was certainly blood, but not nearly as much as if his femoral artery had been hit. The bullet must have grazed him only.

Then he realized that the screaming, which he had thought was himself, was still going.

John looked up. Holmes had dragged Evans up and out of the trapdoor, an amazing feat since Evans likely outweighed him by at least five stone. Evans’ face was covered in blood, and Holmes was still hitting him with a frenzy that had John momentarily paralyzed. Holmes was screaming without words, only rage and fury.

_Dear God, he’ll kill him_ , John thought, and he shouted, “Holmes!”

Holmes froze, his left hand tangled in Evans’ shirt, pulling him upright, and his right fist cocked back for another blow.

“Watson?” he whispered, harsh and low.

Holmes looked up at John, who struggled to sit up. Holmes’ eyes were wild, and didn’t seem to truly see him. John softened his voice. “I’m all right, Holmes, look.”

Holmes released Evans, who fell back with a thump, clearly unconscious. Holmes was at John’s side before he could blink, his hands moving frantically over his chest and leg.

“Are you all right, Watson? Please tell me you’re all right.”

Holmes’ breathing was rabbit-quick, his eyes wide and frightened, and wet. John had never seen Holmes like this, never seen him with his mental defenses down, his emotions flayed and laid open for John to see. Holmes was frightened for him. Holmes was frightened for _him_ , was ready to beat a man nearly to death in retribution for hurting him. John’s heart filled his chest, and Holmes was so close, and it was finally so easy to pull him close, pull Holmes into his arms, and kiss him.

For a moment, it was perfect. The weight of Holmes in his arms, the softness of his lips against his, the puff of Holmes’ breath on his face.

For a moment.

Then Holmes froze and pulled away.

 


	11. “The Soul has Bandaged moments”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncertain Reactions – a Listing of Consequences – Recollections of Youth – Permission Given

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for brief description of period-typical homophobia, and period-typical child abuse, happening in the past.

Holmes’ expression was unreadable – not angry, not frightened, just blank. John felt slow horror creeping up his chest, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.

What had he done?

Everything was chaotic and messy for the next few minutes. The police arrived, responding to the sound of gunfire, then Lestrade was sent for. With every new police officer that entered the room, John broke into a fresh wave of gut-wrenching fear.

When would Holmes tell? Which officer would Holmes turn to and say, ‘This man made inappropriate advances toward me; he is a deviant, a pervert – take him away.’

But Holmes didn’t. He told the story of his client and the strange fraud of the Garridebs, the true identity of the still-unconscious Evans. He told Lestrade to send an officer to Paddington to meet Nathan Garrideb as he returned from Birmingham to corroborate his story and break the news that he would not, in fact, be a millionaire. Holmes’ voice was calm and even, and he never once looked at John.

John sat with his back against the wardrobe they had hidden behind. An officer had brought him a clean cloth, and he pressed it against his leg. The wound had stopped bleeding, but John’s heart still beat double time, sick with fear at his mistake.  

After an eternity, Lestrade gave a sharp nod and closed his notebook with a snap. “Well, that is the strangest story I have heard, Mr. Holmes. We’ll book him on breaking and entering for now, and after we speak to Mr. Garrideb we’ll probably be able to charge him with fraud as well.”

“And attempted murder,” Holmes said quietly. He still did not look at John.

“Quite right,” Lestrade said. “Do you need medical assistance, Doctor Watson?”

“No,” John said, the word nearly silent, without breath, at first. He licked his lips and tried again. “No, thank you, Inspector Lestrade. I’m fine.”

“I’ll take him home to Baker Street,” Holmes said. “Anything else, Inspector?”

Holmes was able to flag a hansom cab. After saying “Baker Street,” to the cabbie he fell silent – not looking out the window, nor at John, but straight ahead.

John’s head was a riot of recrimination and terror. _Stupid stupid stupid_ , his brain chanted over and over. This was a mistake that not even a first year history student would make. He had fallen in love, and made his feelings known to a contemp, in an era where homosexuality was illegal. Holmes would have every right to turn him in; he could go to jail, and there’s no way Dunworthy would be able to get him out.

With every street that they passed, with every clop of the cabbie horse’s hooves, Holmes remained silent. John thought over the possibilities of what would happen when they reached Baker Street:

One, he could call the police and have them arrest John for indecency; that was unlikely, John rationalized. They had been surrounded by police back at Garrideb’s and he hadn’t said a word to them.

Second, Holmes could take matters into his own hands and beat the shit out of John.

Third, Holmes could sit him down and, as kindly as possible, tell him that he didn’t feel like that.

John didn’t know which of the three options was ahead. He honestly didn’t know which would hurt most.

They arrived at Baker Street at twilight, the sky turning a grey-pink. Holmes paid the driver and stepped out. John hopped out and hissed as he accidentally put weight on his wounded leg, and Holmes turned back as if noticing him for the first time.

“Do you require assistance up the stairs, Watson?”

“No, thank you,” said John. His head was buzzing with fear and leftover adrenaline. “I’m all right. I just – jarred it.”

Holmes nodded once, without expression, and opened the door.

They went upstairs, John leaning heavily on the banister but without too much pain. Holmes hung his coat and hat with unnatural care.

“Do you need to bandage your leg?” Holmes said. His voice was measured.

“No, it’s fine for now,” John said. The formality was killing him, the Victorian etiquette would drive him mad.

“Something to eat?”

John shook his head.

“Good. Because I’d rather not ring Mrs. Hudson at the moment. I’d like to – speak with you.” There was a tiny hesitation in his voice, and John closed his eyes for a moment. _Option Three, then_.

They moved to the lounge, and Holmes sat in his usual chair. John chose the divan, so he could stretch out his leg. There was a long moment of silence, and the ticking of the mantle clock was absurdly loud.

 _I should start,_ John thought _. Get it over with. I’ve put him in a difficult situation, it’s the least I can do to give him the polite way out._

“Holmes, I need to apolo-”

Holmes held up his hand, and John stopped in surprise.

“Watson, I must beg you to allow me to speak first. I have been collecting my thoughts all the way here, and I have rehearsed these words carefully. Kindly allow me to speak, without interruption.”

John’s mouth went dry. “All right,” he said.

Holmes took a deep breath, looking down at the floor. He pressed his lips together.

“When I was a child, I had a friend.”

John looked up in surprise. This was not what he had expected at all.

“I didn’t have many friends, as you can imagine. We lived on a large estate in Sussex, a good distance from the village. I had a nanny but she preferred to avoid work in general and me in particular, so I spent a good amount of my time alone. But there was another family that lived two fields over, and they had a boy about my age.

“Victor was everything I was not – athletic, sturdy, funny. Rather than call me odd, or tease me for my fondness for science or for my observations about people – I had started that from a young age – rather, he played with me, creating games of fancy and imagination. We spent nearly every waking hour together.

“One night, at dinner, my parents were talking about a cousin who was getting married. And I said – I was very young, you see, Watson. I said, in complete innocence, that when I grew up, I would marry Victor.

“To me, the logic was simple: if you loved someone, and your family were of the same status, you married. Victor’s house was as grand as ours, and I loved him.

“I will never forget the silence at the table after my pronouncement. Then my father stood up, his face red with rage, and took me to the nursery and – well. He told me, in words and with his belt, that boys do not marry boys and I must remove such filthy thoughts from my head, now and forever.

“My nanny was fired, and a private tutor was brought in to prepare me for school. I went away to school that autumn. I never saw Victor again. I assume Father told his family that I was not to associate with him further.”

John felt a wave of pity for the boy Holmes was. “How old were you?”

“Five.”

“My God.”

“While my father’s methods were not subtle, as I grew, I could see that he was correct – men did not marry men. One could have male friendships, generally in conjunction with sports, for instance, which as a child was not, admittedly, my area of expertise. Intimate relationships were reserved for a man and a woman only.

“At school, especially as an adolescent, I saw that several of my classmates were quite focused on the possibility of future relationships with women. And while I certainly met some women who were engaging and even passingly intelligent, there were none whom I could consider as someone to spend time with, to share my life with. I therefore concluded that a solitary life was for me; that intimate and close relationships were not something that was available to me. I therefore committed myself to my work, and to the constant improvement of my mind and intellect.”

John had listened to this speech with mounting disbelief and horror. It couldn’t be possible that a man of Holmes’ age had gotten this far in his life believing that intimate male relationships were out of reach. They were illegal, but certainly not unknown. John remembered his own childhood and education, where all forms of sexual orientation were taught and celebrated; then he shook himself, knowing that such attitudes were at least 150 years in the future. Even Krafft-Ebing’s studies were still a few years off. But –

“I know what you are thinking, Watson; your face is so expressive and every thought parades across it like the headlines in a newspaper. I am not, of course, ignorant of the fact that homosexuality exists. You have noted that I do read the newspapers, and take particular notice of the agony columns; they are often wonderfully helpful in regard to cases. I have read of court cases, of men being brought to the dock for their activities. But I read of these men, and see nothing of myself in them: I do not dress in women’s clothing, I do not parade the streets, I do not feel myself drawn to younger men or boys. If that is what being a homosexual is, then I cannot identify with that.”

John thought about newspaper accounts of the time, how sensational and tawdry they could be. Reports of cases of homosexual behaviour was generally done in a sniggering, mocking tone, making what was already a difficult situation worse in the eyes of the public.

Even though Holmes had asked for no interruptions, John could not hold himself back any more. “But Holmes,” he said, “You must recognize and acknowledge that the newspapers write such accounts in order to sell more newspapers. They sensationalize the elements of the case which creates scandal and ignore the factual side that does not prove their bias.”

Holmes thought about that for a moment, his mouth a straight, thin line. Then he nodded, acknowledging the point. John decided to press his point farther.

“Holmes, where I come from, men and men love each other without resorting to the behaviours described in those papers. They may share a home together.” In John’s time gay couples could marry, of course, but he couldn’t push the point too far in this era. “Women and women too.” He saw Holmes’ eyes widen in surprise. “Relationships with younger men and boys are a very different thing, and is rightly looked down upon and condemned. And while there are people who prefer to dress as the other sex, that is not the same as being g – homosexual; it is simply – loving each other.”

John stopped, breathless, suddenly worried that he had said too much, revealed too much about his own time and about his heart. Holmes was staring at him in amazement.

“They do such things in Afghanistan?” Holmes said.

A gust of laughter burst out of John before he could stop it. “No, not – no. Holmes, I-” John realized that he had to bring the topic back around to the point. He was not here to give Holmes a lecture on the future of gay rights, but there was an issue that had to be resolved. “Look, Holmes. I thank you for sharing your history with me, and trusting me with it. But the fact of the matter is that I committed a transgression: I kissed you without your permission, without your consent. I should never have done that, and I apologize.”

Holmes was silent for a long time, long enough to make John wonder if he had in fact blown it, ruined everything. Then Holmes took in a sharp breath as though awakening.

“Watson, I thank you for providing me with a new perspective on life, on my own thinking. You have given me much food for thought. And of course I accept your apology, unreservedly. But I’m afraid I require clarification on one point.”

“Yes?”

Holmes’ head tipped to the side, and he stared at John as though he were a problem to be solved. “Are you sorry for kissing me, or are you apologizing for the fact that you didn’t seek my permission?”

John’s jaw dropped, and he swallowed hard past the thudding of his heart. “I don’t understand.”

“I shall rephrase my question then: Do you regret kissing me, or do you regret the lack of consent for the kiss sought from me?”

“I-” John blinked, wondering if he had just been trapped, or released from one.

“The truth, if you please,” Holmes said. His face betrayed nothing.

“I – Holmes, I-” John took a deep breath, straightened his back, and took courage in hand. “I do not regret kissing you, Holmes. I’ve wished to do so for a long time. But I should have asked your permission before doing so, and for that I ask your forgiveness.”

“Hm.” Holmes nodded thoughtfully, while John’s heart hammered hard. “Then – what if I were to give you permission?”

“I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t have heard that right, Holmes couldn’t have said –

“I mean, if I were to consent to be kissed, would you do so again? Or, perhaps,” and Holmes moved swiftly to the divan, sitting beside John, “perhaps I should say; Doctor Watson, may I kiss you?”

John looked at Holmes’ face, and saw bravado, a bit of mischief, and a thin layer of vulnerability underneath it all. “Yes,” he said. He was suddenly calm, and his voice was steady. “Yes, you may kiss me.”

Holmes smiled, a crooked smile that John had not seen before, and he wondered if anyone had seen that smile before. Then Holmes leaned forward, careful and slow, and pressed his lips to John’s.

If the kiss in Garrideb’s rooms had been good, with adrenaline and relief flooding his veins, this kiss was wonderful. It was careful, and soft, and chaste, but completely mutual. It was merely lips against lips, but Holmes was gentle and a little tentative, and John reflected that care as he kissed back. After a moment, Holmes sat back, his eyes fluttering.

“You have changed my world view,” Holmes said. There was a blush on his high cheekbones that John loved. “That – I-”

“Yes,” John said. He brushed his fingertips against that blush. “Me too.”

“Would you – may I have your permission to continue kissing you?”

John laughed softly, in joy and relief. “You need never ask again. It is yours, permanently, without hesitation.”

They kissed again, John deepening the kiss but still keeping his mouth closed, not wanting to overwhelm Holmes. He allowed his hand to caress Holmes’ cheek, then travel down along his shoulder and arm, and settle on Holmes’ waist. Even through the layers of wool, John could feel how thin the man was, but there was a layer of muscle, of contained power. He sighed and pulled Holmes closer.

They stayed like that for a moment; John giving Holmes time to assimilate the new information, the paradigm shift, and giving himself time to adjust to the fact that Holmes was in his arms, and wanted to be there. It was wonderful.

“May I call you by your name?” John whispered. “Your given name?”

“Yes,” Holmes breathed. “And may I…?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes.”

Sherlock sighed, as though all the tension in his body was leaving him. “John. John.”


	12. “The Heart asks Pleasure – first”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teaching and Taught – Upside Down Reading Matter – the Art of Mince Pies - Vulnerability and Valets – Discovery and Analysis of Bullet Holes

John wasn’t sure how long they kissed. It felt so perfect, so right, with Holmes – Sherlock – in his arms. Sometimes he would wonder if he was having a wonderfully detailed dream, then Sherlock would sigh and shift a little in John’s arms, and John happily knew he was awake. They explored the art of kissing; Sherlock at first unsure and hesitant in a way that made John’s heart swell, then he rapidly learned so well that he made John’s eyes roll into the back of his head. When John carefully ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips, seeking entrance, Sherlock gasped softly and pulled away to stare at John in amazement.

“Really?” he whispered.

“Only if you wish to,” John said.

“I believe I do,” Sherlock said, as though he was surprised at himself.  He leaned back into John, his lips parted slightly. John let the tip of his tongue taste Sherlock’s mouth, delicately, and Sherlock made an equally delicate moan.

John thought he could burst with happiness. Had this been any other woman or man, at this stage in the proceedings he would have his partner pressed down on the sofa and starting to get their clothes off. With Sherlock, it wasn’t just that he was a virgin and didn’t even know about the possibility of men loving each other until an hour ago - John knew this man was wasn’t a fragile flower - but this was something different, something extraordinary, and John was more than happy to enjoy the moment as it was.

Sherlock shifted, moving even closer to John, then froze. He pulled away slightly and whispered, “Mrs. Hudson.” Only then did John hear her footsteps on the stairs.

In the space of a blink, Sherlock had moved away and back onto his own chair. He produced a newspaper out of nowhere, tossed it to John, then picked up a book and began to read. John held the paper up, fortunately realizing it was upside down before Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Mrs. Hudson said, as she set the tea tray down. “My goodness, Mr. Holmes, you are red in the face – have you just returned from a case?”

“We have indeed, Mrs. Hudson. How perceptive of you,” Sherlock said smoothly.

“Well, I’ve got some nice mince tarts today, and – Oh! Doctor Watson!”

John looked up and saw Mrs. Hudson staring down at his leg, at his torn trousers and the blood tracing the edges of the ripped cloth. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hudson – it’s nothing, nothing at all.”

He wondered if she would swoon, but she said instead, “Well, goodness gracious, go and change, sir, and I’ll clean and repair the trousers. The sooner you get blood out of wool, the less likely to stain.”

John stood, wincing a little as the dried blood ripped at the skin of his leg. “Apologies, Mrs. Hudson. Please excuse me.”

He went up to his room, stripped off the offending trousers, and checked his leg. It was in fact superficial, though now that he was thinking about it, it stung a bit. He cleaned the wound and bandaged it, changing into his only other pair of trousers. All this was done with a silly smile on his face and a light, happy hum through his body.

When he returned to the sitting room, his torn trousers in hand, Mrs. Hudson was seated across from Sherlock, hearing the story of the three so-called Garridebs. Mrs. Hudson was a rapt and attentive audience, and Sherlock an excellent storyteller. As John entered, Sherlock said, “Ah, there you are, Doctor Watson. You haven’t yet had Mrs. Hudson’s mince pies, have you? They’re quite marvellous.” As Mrs. Hudson turned her back to pour the tea, Sherlock smiled softly at John in a way that heated him from the inside.

_This could be my life_ , he thought suddenly.

He swallowed and deliberately put the thought away for later. “I love mince pies, Mrs. Hudson; I cannot wait to try yours.”

It was, in fact, a lovely tea, made even more lovely by the sight of Sherlock’s smile every time Mrs. Hudson looked away. Eventually she tidied the dishes onto the tray, said, “Good night, gentlemen,” and made her way down the stairs. Sherlock softly closed the door behind her and turned to John.

“Now, Watson,” he began, then flushed slightly. He glanced down, shyly, then back up at John. “Apologies. _John_.”

John loved the way Sherlock said his name, as though it was a secret that only they shared. “We shall call each other ‘Watson’ and ‘Holmes’ when the door is open,” he said, “and ‘John’ and ‘Sherlock’ when the door is shut.”

“Excellent idea,” Sherlock said. “And now – I believe we had just begun an experiment?”

They drifted back to the divan, falling back into each other’s arms. John kept his kisses sweet and mild for a minute, but then Sherlock opened his mouth slightly with a tiny vocalization that sounded like a request. John slid his tongue into that willing mouth, very gradually, exploring with care. Slowly, tentatively, Sherlock began to respond in kind.

Very soon John felt electricity soaring through his body, and he had the urge to lie down, to pull Sherlock down with him. Instead, Sherlock pulled back a fraction.

“Tell me, John – is it true that men would lie down with men, as a man might do with a woman? On a bed perhaps?”

John swallowed, and his heart beat faster. “Yes, should both men wish it.”

“I do.”

“I do as well. But, Sherlock,” John thought that he needed to be the responsible one in this situation. It was up to John to slow the pace. “We do not have to. This, just this, is perfection. We need not do more.”

“You are kind, my friend.” Sherlock passed his long fingers through John’s hair, and John closed his eyes in pleasure. “I understand that you are concerned about the speed of our more… intimate relationship. You do not wish to even bear the thought of taking advantage. This is a sign of your good heart, and I thank you. And I recognize that I am feeling more vulnerable than I ever have before. But I know myself, and I know you – at least certain aspects of you. And since we have revealed ourselves to each other, I feel a strong desire to know you better; to know you completely. And for you to know me completely as well.”

John felt a stinging behind his eyes, and fell in love a little more. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I want that too. But promise me, Sherlock, that if you are ever uncomfortable, or if the feeling of vulnerability surpasses your curiosity or pleasure, you will tell me immediately.”

“I promise,” Sherlock said, and stood.

They walked hand in hand down the hallway. Sherlock led John to his room, which was astonishingly neat compared to the rest of the flat.  Sherlock lit a candle by the bedside, throwing shadows around the room. If Sherlock was beautiful by day, he was breathtaking by candlelight. John couldn’t help tracing the shadows that formed along his cheekbones. Sherlock put his arms around John’s shoulders, closed his eyes, and breathed a shaky sigh.

“All right?” John murmured.

“Yes.” He opened his eyes and smiled – not shyly, but happily. “Yes.”

John kissed him, softly, almost chastely. “Sit down.”

Confusion ghosted across Sherlock’s face for a moment, then comprehension. He sat on the edge of the bed, the ticking squeaking underneath him. John knelt at his feet and began to unbutton his boots.

“Are you my valet now, John?” Sherlock said.

“For now, yes.” John eased the boot off, revealing a silk sock over a long, elegant foot. He stroked Sherlock’s foot, smiling at the intake of breath he heard above him, then turned to the other foot.

“Haven’t – had a valet in – years,” Sherlock said, small gasps interrupting him.

John quickly unlaced his own shoes and lined them up with Sherlock’s under the bed. Then he stood, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. “May I?” he asked, as he slid his hands under the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket.

“Please,” Sherlock said. He seemed slightly stunned now, his eyes gone glassy.

John slipped the jacket off, and hung it on the back of a chair. He started to shrug his own jacket off, but Sherlock stopped him, placing his hands over John’s and saying, “Wait.”

He turned; Sherlock was right behind him. The glassy look was still there, but a slightly amused smile broke through it. “May I?”

“Please,” John said.

Sherlock took John’s jacket off and hung it over top of his own. Then he raised his hands to John’s neck, and insinuated a long finger behind the knot of his tie. John closed his eyes briefly at the sound of the silk unwrapping at his neck, then reached up to pull off Sherlock’s cravat.

Sherlock reached for the buttons of John’s waistcoat, but John stopped his hands. “Not yet,” he said, even though his heart was beating double time and he wanted to strip Sherlock down _now_ , but the stunned look was still in Sherlock’s eyes, reminding John to pace himself. “Come here.”

He felt as though he were dreaming: leading Sherlock, in his shirtsleeves, towards a bed, Sherlock following willingly. _A wonderful dream_ , he thought. _Best dream I’ve had_. He climbed up onto the bed, lay down, and beckoned Sherlock to him. Sherlock hesitated only for a moment, then joined him.

They lay down next to each other, side by side, facing each other, not touching.

“Sherlock,” John said, quietly, as if raising his voice would break a spell. “If you-”

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock said, with a trace of impatience in his voice. He reached out and cupped John’s cheek in his hand.

John’s words failed him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slim and strong waist, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Sherlock’s kisses had gained in confidence, and despite his best efforts to keep things from getting too intense, John found himself getting hard. Sherlock kept pressing them closer and closer together.. He distracted himself by weaving his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, disrupting the neatly combed style. His hair was surprisingly soft, a little slick with pomade. He had thought it was dark brown, but close up he could see auburn highlights.

Sherlock gave a little strangled cry, and jerked back. John startled, wondering if he had gone too far, but then Sherlock said, “My collar – choking me-”

John heard the ping of the collar button falling to the ground, and then Sherlock’s detachable collar parted and fell away from Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock threw the collar in the general direction of the bedside table, muttering, “There,” and swiftly undid the first few buttons of his shirt. “Sorry,” he said, and moved back in towards John.

“No, wait,” John said. The sight of Sherlock’s neck - pale and long with a few scattered freckles - had dazzled him. After weeks of seeing Sherlock covered from nape to heel in layers and layers of tweed and wool, just these few undone buttons were more intimate and naked than John could bear. He gave in and buried his face in Sherlock’s throat, kissing and lapping at his neck and feeling Sherlock’s pulse quicken under his tongue. Sherlock groaned, a buzz that vibrated up through John’s mouth and through the rest of his body.

“You’re beautiful,” John said, hushed and reverent. “You’re so beautiful.”

“John – this is – oh – this is unlike anything I’ve ever – oh please – may I – may I-”

He realized fuzzily that Sherlock was fumbling at John’s shirt buttons. “Of course,” he smiled. He leaned back a little to give Sherlock room. “Whatever you wish.”

Sherlock unbuttoned John’s shirt, his face lighting up a little more as he went, like each button was a mystery solved. He parted the two sides of the shirt, revealing John’s smallclothes. John had never hated Victorian costume more.

Sherlock looked up at John, half shy, half pleading. “John – I want – I want to see all of you. Is that all right?”

“Yes, certainly,” John said, his heart melting impossibly more. “And you? May I see you?”

“Yes. Yes.”

They each stood, and from either side of the bed, removed article after article of clothing. Waistcoat, braces, shirts, trousers, sock garters, and finally the smallclothes. John stood for a moment, staring at Sherlock: his gooseflesh rising up in the cool of the room, his long lines of muscle and skin, wiry and muscular. His cock was thick and heavy, lifting up from a dark thatch of hair. Sherlock was staring at John, his hands twitching to cover his genitals. John felt a little self-conscious too, knowing his own stocky body was nothing like Sherlock’s graceful beauty. He crawled back up onto the bed again, and Sherlock followed after only a second of dazed hesitation.

John put his arms around Sherlock, but didn’t pull him too close, not wanting to overwhelm him. “All right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, as though he were surprised by his own answer. “I had thought that this would be – terribly awkward. But now that I am here, and you are so close, I find myself at ease – well, in certain respects.”

John laughed, and Sherlock laughed too, a low chuckle that rumbled up from the pit of his stomach and was incredibly arousing. John began to lean in to kiss Sherlock again, to drink the laughter from his mouth, but Sherlock placed his hand gently against John’s chest.

“Just a moment, I want to – would it bother you, if I looked-?”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John’s shoulder, and John understood immediately. “Not at all,” he said.

Sherlock’s fingers ran delicately over the ridges of John’s bullet wound, healed but still pink and sore. John could see Sherlock’s fascination with it, nearly hear the rattle of deductions about it in his brain.

“This should have killed you,” Sherlock said, his voice slightly hoarse with awe. “It – It’s a wonder you didn’t bleed to death. You could have – dear God, John.”

Sherlock was right: if John had received this wound in this era, without the medical care of the twenty-first century, he most certainly would have bled out.

“I didn’t,” John said, trying to soothe. “I didn’t.”

“You must have had a very good doctor.”

“I did.” John smiled, remembering Dr. Lyon, back in 2060.

Sherlock was still running his fingers over the scar. “It healed very cleanly. What kind of gun was it?”

_A Kalashnikov_ , John thought. “If you’re thinking about guns, I am not doing this correctly,” he said.

Sherlock took his hand away, letting it hover in mid-air. “Apologies,” he said, sounding chagrined. “What must you do?”

He took Sherlock’s hand from its place in the air and placed it on his waist, then renewed his efforts on Sherlock’s neck. “I must make you forget about guns, and war, and crime, and everything else except this bed, and how I want to make you feel.”

Sherlock groaned, and the sound reignited the fire under John’s skin. He began to kiss Sherlock everywhere he could reach – neck, mouth, cheek, chest. Sherlock’s hands became frantic, running over John’s back, his nape, and after a brief hesitation, his arse. John could definitely feel Sherlock’s hardness now, twitching and leaking against John’s hip. Though it was half killing him to move slowly, John’s fingers crept down Sherlock’s body, tracing his waist and hip, watching his face constantly. He moved deliberately, so Sherlock could anticipate what he was doing and where he was going, give him the opportunity to stop John if he wanted.  Sherlock was huffing for breath, but John saw him nodding jerkily, and realized that he was saying, “Ye – ye – ye,” unable to complete the word.

He took Sherlock’s cock in hand, groaning himself at the feel of it, the hardness and silkiness of it, and at the feel of Sherlock’s response. Sherlock was leaking so much that John needed no further lubrication, and began to stroke. Sherlock jerked in his arms, his fingertips stuttering across John’s skin. John realized that Sherlock was close, so close; understandable if this was his first sexual experience with another person. He wondered if he should slow down, try to draw out the sensations for Sherlock, but then Sherlock’s eyes flew open as if in shock, his body froze, and then he was coming, spurting out over John’s hand and belly.

“That’s it, that’s it, lovely, beautiful,” John crooned in his ear. He stroked him through the orgasm until Sherlock’s body relaxed all at once, collapsing onto the bed. John was ready to explode, himself, the sight of Sherlock coming had nearly tipped him over the edge as well. He released Sherlock carefully, and took himself in hand, using Sherlock’s come to lubricate his own efforts. He had only stroked himself a few times when he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at him with fascination and curiosity, and that was enough. John came hard, his breath stuttering out in grunts. The knowledge that Sherlock was watching him, studying him as he came, served to push his orgasm higher and higher, until he collapsed next to Sherlock.

A breath or two to recover, and then John gathered Sherlock into his arms again, kissing him over and over on his flushed-pink face.

“All right?” he asked.

Sherlock was silent, and John broke off the kiss to study Sherlock’s face. His breath was slowing to its regular rate, there was a slight sheen of sweat across his forehead and upper lip, and his eyes were wet.

“Sherlock?” he said. _Oh God_.

Sherlock sighed, and rested his forehead against John’s. “Pardon me,” he said. “It is only that – this is something I never thought I could have.”

“Nor I,” John whispered.


	13. “The first Day’s Night had come”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deceptive Bedclothes – Punctuality – A Way to Spend the Time – Proper Gentlemen – Definition of Terms

Sherlock’s bed was small and clearly not meant for two, but they made do, sleeping close enough that John could feel the puff of air as Sherlock breathed on his cheek.

He had never felt so happy or content or comfortable in his life.

He woke when Sherlock gently shook on his shoulder. “John,” he whispered.

John rolled over to see Sherlock perched on the side of the bed, wearing a dressing gown, his bare chest showing between the lapels. Sherlock smiled at him, the same lopsided smile that John had realized was just for him.

“I have taken the liberty of going up to your room and disarranging the bedclothes so it appears as though you slept there. We should dress, as Mrs. Hudson will be up shortly with our morning tea.”

“Thank you,” John said, his heart swelling. “How long until she arrives?”

“Approximately fifteen minutes,” Sherlock said.

“Time enough for a kiss, then,” John said, pulling Sherlock down by his lapels.

John had been a bit afraid that Sherlock would be awkward this morning, possibly regretful of their actions the previous night. But the kiss was warm and unhesitating, though relatively chaste. As the kiss ended, Sherlock sat up with notable reluctance.

“There have been many times in the past where I have teased Mrs. Hudson for her punctuality,” he said. “But today I am particularly resentful of it.”

“And yet it is useful, as we know when exactly she will be here,” John said. He rolled out of bed and stretched; Sherlock watched him with a heated expression that made John’s heart speed up. He kissed Sherlock on his collarbone, nudging the material of the dressing gown out of the way. “Later,” he whispered against his skin.

He gathered his clothes and ran upstairs, but still heard Sherlock say, in a stunned tone, “Yes.”

His shirt was too rumpled to be worn, having spent the night on the floor, and his only other pair of pants was being fixed. He silently thanked Mrs. Hudson as he pulled a freshly ironed shirt from the wardrobe. He dressed quickly, hoping to have a quick snog before Mrs. Hudson appeared, but he caught sight of the loose floorboard, under which he hid his journal.

His other life flashed to him in a rush: Mr. Dunworthy, the morgue study, his thesis defense, tenure. He stared at the journal for a moment, realizing that something huge had changed, and that he had a lot of thinking to do, and soon.  _ Later _ , he thought, and he gave a quick, sharp nod to the journal before heading back downstairs.

Sherlock was dressed already, looking dignified and beautiful in a coal-grey suit with a deep purple waistcoat, sitting in his chair with a book. He looked up and John stopped short in the doorway, amazed all over again that he had kissed that mouth, had his fingers in that hair, seen Sherlock undone. He stepped forward, but just then the clock chimed and Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door.

“Later,” Sherlock mouthed to him, then stood and let Mrs. Hudson in.

She brought not only a delicious breakfast but John’s trousers, repaired so beautifully he could not see the seam. He complimented her unstintingly, until she tutted at him and told him to be more careful.

“Indeed you must,” Sherlock said. “May I have a scone, Mrs. Hudson?”

John spent most of breakfast wondering whether there was a place in the flat where he could kiss Sherlock out of view of the big front windows. Closing the drapes would only arouse suspicion, from the passers-by and from Mrs. Hudson. But just as Mrs. Hudson was gathering up the crockery, there was a knock at the downstairs door.

“Oh my, so early,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “I’ll just go see who that is, and bring the tray down later.”

“Send him right up,” Sherlock said. “It’s the boy from Scotland Yard. It would appear, Watson, that we will have a case to with which to while away our day.”

**

“I’ll get you, you bastard!”

John was running as hard as he could across Hampstead Heath, and he could hear Sherlock’s racing breath beside him. He managed to get his gun out of his pocket – thank God he’d loaded it already.

“Not – yet-” Sherlock panted.

There was a whine, and a small explosion of grass to the left of them.

“Now!” Sherlock shouted, and they both stopped and turned, John firing at Robbins as he turned. Perhaps there was an angel on his shoulder, or perhaps John’s aim was improving as he got used to the revolver, but there was a spark near Robbin’s hand, and he dropped his gun with a cry.

John ran back and kicked the gun out of Robbin’s reach, then knelt on his back. “Stay still, you,” he said.

“Well done, Watson,” Sherlock said. “If you could just hold him there until Inspector Gregson catches up.”

**

After Robbins had been safely escorted back to Scotland Yard, and a long, rapid-fire explanation from Sherlock of how Robbins had stolen nearly a million pounds worth of gold bars and hidden them in Westminster Abbey, and a cab ride back to Baker Street, it was nearly midnight.

“Quiet, or we’ll wake Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock whispered as they crept up the stairs.

The moment the door of the flat closed behind them, Sherlock knocked John’s hat off, took him by the shoulders and crowded him against the wall in the hallway. Before he could even breathe, Sherlock was on him, kissing him desperately and hard, trapping John against the wall with his long legs. John responded in kind, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and a handful of coat at his waist, hauling Sherlock even closer. He found himself making hungry, gasping noises into Sherlock’s mouth.

“I have been wanting to do this since the Heath,” Sherlock murmured, and John could feel the buzzing of his deep voice against his skin. “There is something… dangerously attractive about watching you shoot, and my blood has been  _ boiling _ .”

“Me too,” John groaned. “Oh, listening to you when you make your deductions, it was all I could do to not kiss you right there in Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock stopped his explorations of John’s neck, and looked at him with a curious, slightly confused expression. “Really?”

“Absolutely. It was your brain that first made me want you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, clearly shocked from this revelation. John took advantage and reversed their positions, pushing Sherlock against the wall.

“Indeed. Whenever you show your brilliance like that, all I want to do is touch you.” John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s wide and startled ones, as he slid to his knees. “You’re amazing, and beautiful, and clever, and now I want to show you another way of taking that brilliant mind apart.”

He undid Sherlock’s flies, mentally cursing complicated Victorian costume, while continuing to stare at Sherlock. At last he pulled Sherlock’s cock from his trousers, already hard and pushing against the seam of his smallclothes. John hummed with anticipation, and licked Sherlock’s cock from the base to the leaking tip. Sherlock’s knees buckled, and he groaned.

John pinned him against the wall with his right hand and wrapped his left around the base of his cock. “Quiet,” he said with a small smile, “or Mrs. Hudson will hear you,” and took Sherlock into his mouth.

Sherlock’s cock was long and thin, much like the man himself, and was now straining out of Sherlock’s grey trousers. John took as much of Sherlock into his mouth as he could, and after a few moments was able to press in enough to brush his nose against the dark wool. Sherlock was making strangled noises above him, and John glanced up enough to see that Sherlock was biting at his fist to keep quiet. John released Sherlock’s hip, and used that hand to caress his balls, still hidden inside his clothes. He could feel Sherlock’s legs trembling on either side of him, heard his breath become deeper and rhythmic.

John imagined what they looked like right now – two proper Victorian gentlemen, fully dressed, one on his knees with the other’s cock in his mouth, and the recipient writhing in an avalanche of sensation. John groaned at the image, and felt Sherlock’s reaction to the vibrations. His cock was so hard it hurt, and was pushing against his flies. He switched hands and brought his left down to undo his trousers, pulled himself out with a sigh of relief, and began to stroke himself to relieve the pressure.

“Oh God, John,” Sherlock panted. “John – John – John-”  

Sherlock’s hips jolted forward, and then John’s mouth was full of his come. He swallowed and swallowed, all the while jerking harder on his own cock. Then Sherlock exhaled noisily, and John looked up. Sherlock was looking down at him, his face red and sweaty, with an expression of awe and wonder. John felt the warmth of his orgasm swell and burst as he came on the floor at Sherlock’s feet, Sherlock’s softening cock still in his mouth.

John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s hip for a moment until he caught his breath, feeling Sherlock’s breath through the swell of his belly. Then Sherlock reached down and gently pulled John to his feet, kissing him softly.

“Come, John,” he whispered. “I would like to lie down with you now, if we could.”

They tucked themselves away, and cleaned up John’s come with a bit of newspaper, which they crumpled up and threw in the fire. In Sherlock’s room, they silently undressed themselves. With the urgency past, they moved slowly, and Sherlock’s eyes never strayed far from John’s. Finally, they slid into bed between cool sheets, and turned to each other.

Oddly enough, John wasn’t tired. He had thought he would be, after a challenging and dangerous case, followed by a spectacular orgasm to top it off. But he felt calm and serene and not sleepy at all.

Clearly Sherlock felt the same way. He continued gazing at John, running his fingertips along the lines of John’s shoulder and arm. John allowed his own hand to wander the planes and valleys of Sherlock’s chest and belly.

“I feel I have learned more about myself in the last two days, than in my entire life combined,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “Yes; I feel the same.”

“You have taught me many things, John,” Sherlock said, his voice grave and solemn. “Not only the physical aspects of our relationships, but also – I keep thinking of our conversation yesterday, and what you said about men’s relationships with men.”

John nodded.

“And while you have taught me a great deal already, I am finding myself full of questions, and beg of you to be my guide once more.”

“All right,” John said, not sure where this was leading.

“You have mentioned previously that the portrayal of homosexual relationships in newspapers is based in sensationalism, and therefore is not reflective of their true nature. That public portrayal is purely physical, showing those men as lust-addled creatures, giving way to their baser needs. However, I recall you telling me that men – and women – can and do love each other, in the same way that a man and a woman are generally thought to do.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“My question to you is where that line is drawn: the line between the physical aspects of love versus the affections of the heart? Lust, sexual attraction – these things are easy to identify, at least in the case of men, as we have… external indicators. But what are the indicators of a more tender nature?”

John’s eyes wandered all over Sherlock’s face. “Are you asking how to tell if you’re in love?” And he thought,  _ Are you asking if you’re in love with me? _

Sherlock crooked an eyebrow at him. “Well – yes.”

John took a deep breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. “In many cases – the best cases – the two states exist together, love and physical affection combined together in a way that is difficult to isolate each. Perhaps if you described your… symptoms, I could attempt to help you define them.”

Sherlock paused, thinking, then nodded. “Very well. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts.”

He turned onto his back, and arranged his hands under his chin as though he were at prayer. John let silence fall, hearing only the ticking of the clock downstairs and his own heartbeat. After several minutes that felt like hours, Sherlock stirred and turned back to John.

“All right, John. Thank you for your patience. This is challenging for me, you understand, but I will do my best.”

“I’m listening.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and began. “After the incident I already recalled to you, with my friend Victor, I had no more friends. This was partly to do with my childhood disappointment with the loss of Victor’s company, but also, as I grew older, I could not find any other person, male or female, with whom I felt inclined to spend my time. With my powers of observation, I could look at an individual and instantly know their whole life story, which then rendered conversation useless and moot. I found most people dull and uninteresting, and preferred to spend my time reading, or doing experiments, or expanding my intellect in some way; but always in isolation.

“However, when I met you at St. Bartholomew’s, I found myself intrigued by you. I could observe some things about you – your injury, your place of birth, your need for rooms – but there was information that remained elusive.  Thereafter I found myself wanting to choose your company above any others, including my own.

“Having developed my career in crime solving, I used to believe that I worked best when alone; in fact, other people would impede my progress. You’ve seen that in action with Gregson and Lestrade, I believe. However, I found myself desiring to have you with me while on cases. Our first case together I thought would be an illustration to you of the life I have chosen for myself, to give you fair warning, I suppose. And you seemed to embrace the complexities of the case, enjoy being a part of it as it unfolded. And so I started to want your presence during all my cases.

“As we spent more time together, and then when we embarked upon our sexual relationship, I will confess that I was concerned that you might be a distraction; that the desires of the flesh would turn my mind away from the problem at hand, to the detriment of the case. I confess this is why I left you here to pursue my research in regards to the Garridebs case at Scotland Yard. But instead I have discovered that your presence sharpens my mind; that outlining the details of a mystery to you often will unlock the secrets of the solution in my head. Moreover, your medical expertise has often been of use, and of course your ability to shoot a gun and protect us. During that time when you could not attend cases and worked on your own studies, I found myself missing your presence, found that the cases took longer; and that ultimately your absence was more of a distraction than your presence. When I thought that you had been killed in Garrideb’s rooms, I believe I went mad for a moment.

“In short: I desire your company above all others. I feel that I am better in your presence than without it. I feel I will never tire of your company, your conversation. Even in quiet moments I feel close to you. These feelings have been magnified since the advent of our more intimate relationship. I do not wish to be parted from you. I believe that-”

John could not hold back any longer, and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “Yes, Sherlock, yes,” he whispered fiercely. “Yes, that’s love. And I love you too.”

They made love again then. It began with kisses and pressing each other close, and evolved into writhing against each other, their lips never parting. It was John this time who lost his rhythm first, first gasped Sherlock’s name, and came all over their bellies, but Sherlock was not far behind and spurted over John’s come before it had cooled. They moved apart only far enough to allow themselves to clean up a bit, then collapsed into sleep, their lips brushing together.

In the morning, John woke first. He allowed himself a moment to stare at Sherlock, his face smooth in sleep, then kissed his shoulder.

“I’m going upstairs to dress, love,” he whispered. “Mrs. Hudson will be up soon.”

Sherlock made an indistinct noise and fumbled for John’s hand. He pulled it up to his face and kissed John’s fingers without opening his eyes. John laughed, and pulled a housecoat on.

He dressed slowly, not wanting the magic of last night to shatter like glass. Then he sat at his desk and opened his journal.

_ I can’t leave him now. I’m not physically able. _

_ I’ve never felt like this, ever. I thought I loved him before, but this is like nothing else I’ve experienced. I thought I could go back and drown myself in work, in my studies, in the tenure track position Dunworthy promised. But now, having touched him, having heard from his mouth how much I mean to him, that he loves me – I couldn’t leave him now. _

_ There are practicalities to consider, of course. I have to get the notes on the study back to Dunworthy. He told me that the study was commissioned through a grant, and Balliol will have to forfeit the grant money if they don’t get the material. I can’t leave Dunworthy in the lurch like that; he’s done so much for me. _

_ Everything – my thesis, tenure track – I don’t care anymore. It can all go hang. There’s a few people I’ll say goodbye to: Bahdri, Veronica. But I’ll write them notes and ask Dunworthy to pass them along. _

_ I don’t want to be separated from him, even for an hour. I’ll go to the drop and go back, explain to Dunworthy, drop off the stuff, and turn right back. I’ve got a time machine, I’ll be back in five minutes. _

_ I should add to this list: I need to thank Dunworthy for everything he’s done for me, but mostly to thank him for sending me here, so I could meet this extraordinary, wonderful man. _

_ I know I sound like a spotty teen, but so be it. I’m in love, and he loves me. _

John laid the pen down, feeling light and weightless. The decision he thought would be so difficult was made, and he didn’t regret it at all.

He ran downstairs. He was in such a good mood that he worried he would even hug Mrs. Hudson when he saw her, which would be highly inappropriate.

But when he arrived in the sitting room, there was the tray with their morning tea, but no Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, of course, was dressed immaculately and already drinking his tea. When John entered, he looked up with a smile that made John think of the sun rising.

“You took a while,” Sherlock said. “I thought you’d fallen asleep again.”

“I thought you’d be asleep still,” John said.

“I discovered that sleeping without you there has become intolerable,” Sherlock said with a faint blush that John found adorable. John shushed him, looking around for their landlady.

“She’s not here. She had to go visit her sister this morning, so she brought up the breakfast and left. Pass me some toast and kippers, if you will, John. For some reason this morning I am ravenous.”

“I wonder why that could be,” John grinned.

He crossed to the tray and began to fix a plate for Sherlock and himself. The morning paper was folded neatly beside it. John frowned: the headline was huge, though he could only see the first couple of letters. He picked up the paper, and his heart stopped at the sight of a headline he had seen in textbooks many times before:

**WILDE GUILTY**

Two thoughts slammed into his brain at once. The first was:  _ as of today in history, this was a very, very bad time to be gay in England. _

And the second was:  _ I lost track of the days. It’s May 25. The drop is at midnight tonight. _


	14. “’Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fame and Infamy – Conflicting Interests – Known Indicators – Promises Made – Confusion and Costumes – An Unforeseen Situation

“What’s the matter, John?”

John didn’t hear him. His head was full of swirling thoughts: _Oscar Wilde – sodomite – two years hard labour – ruined his health – rendez-vous – midnight on May 26 – can’t miss the drop – Dunworthy_.

“John?”

John looked up at Sherlock as though he were dreaming. “I lost track of the days – I forgot.”

“What?”  Sherlock jumped to his feet, a look of deep concern on his face. “John? Are you unwell?”

_Stop standing there and_ **_think_** , Dunworthy’s voice said in his head. John snapped back to himself, and turned to look at Sherlock’s worried face. Wordlessly he passed the paper to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the paper, glanced at the headline. “Who’s this Wilde fellow? Do you know him?”

“No,” John said. He shook his head a bit to clear it. “Don’t you – haven’t you been reading the papers? He’s quite famous.” And he had been, Oscar Wilde had been the toast of London for years, which made his downfall all the more tragic.

“I read the agony columns and the crime section, John,” Sherlock said. “Everything else is just gossip.”

“This is important, Sherlock,” John said. “Read it, please.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and returned to his chair with the paper. John quickly drank a cup of now-cool tea, his throat suddenly dry. The tea was somehow more thirst quenching cold than hot, and he poured another cup and sat down heavily. He waited for Sherlock to finish, his mind still stammering over the import of this day in history.

_I can’t believe I forgot. I haven’t looked at a paper in days. Why didn’t I realize that the rendez-vous was the day after Wilde was found guilty? The courts made an example of Wilde: famous man, flamboyant, an esthete, in a relationship with the son of the Marquis of Queensbury. He did two years, hard labour, at Reading Gaol, his health never recovered. Gay men left England in droves, terrified of the same fate._

He looked over at Sherlock, whose frown was deepening as he read. _I must protect him at all costs,_ he thought. _Sherlock can’t go to jail. Not only because jails in this time were merciless places designed to break a man’s body and soul, but also because jail will be filled with men he helped to put there. One vengeful man with a homemade knife, and there is no more Sherlock Holmes. I can’t let that happen. I won’t._

Sherlock laid down the paper, and pressed his hands together in front of his face. “I see,” he said. “A tragic situation, to be sure. What do you feel will come of this?”

One of the problems with being a time travelling historian was moments like this: trying to draw conclusions based solely upon the limited information the contemps would have, versus the whole picture that looking back on a moment in history gives you. John spoke carefully.

“It means that the law will begin to crack down on homosexuality, try to further demonstrate that it is an illegal practice and is to be condemned. Arrests will be made.”

“And if I know the intelligence level of Scotland Yard, they will investigate and arrest people on the slightest excuse.”

“Such as…”

“Two unmarried gentlemen sharing rooms,” Sherlock finished. “And I am realistic about my relationship with the Yard. While I am happy to help with cases when they are brought to me, there are those who are jealous of my abilities and would not object to my removal from society.” He looked up at John. “I am sorry, John,” he said softly.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” John said. “It is their loss that they cannot see the gifts you bring them.”

Sherlock smiled sadly, then became serious again. “The question that we must address is our course of action.”

Indeed, John thought. He sat back in his chair and began thinking this through, only half-listening to Sherlock as he spoke in his usual rapid-fire manner.

_Need to be at St. Paul’s Square by midnight._

“The newspapers will try to keep the issue at the forefront of citizens’ concerns for as long as possible.”

_It’s an hour’s walk between here and St. Paul’s, need to leave at 10:45 at the latest._

“We can simply leave London, unobtrusively, until the media furor has died down.”

_Gives me a bit of time to write up the last of my notes – no, not even time for that._

“According to this account, Wilde was offered multiple chances to leave for the continent before his trial and sentence; he refused.”

_I’ll write one note to explain to Mr. Dunworthy._

“I give credit to his bravado, although it may well have been denial of the seriousness of the situation.”

_Can’t take anything from the past back through the net, so must remember to wear the clothes I came through in._

“It seems as though Wilde is being used as an example.”

_Go back through and explain. Hand over the journal. Hopefully Bahdri will be on tech, so I can say goodbye in person._

“However, we need to consider our own situation. We can simply remove ourselves from sight, which will reduce or eliminate suspicion.”

_Have him send me back five minutes later. Even with slippage, I’ll be back before dawn._

“My mother’s family had an estate in France, which my brother has maintained. We can go there for some time until the tension has passed, tell others that we are on an extended case.”

_Then get back here, get us out of London for a bit._

“I will wire my brother, and we can take the train to Dover this afternoon, then the boat across the channel to Calais in the morning. I will consult my Bradshaw’s schedule, but I believe there is a train at 2:35pm. Do you agree?”

“Hm?” John’s head snapped up, to see Sherlock looking at him.

“Do you agree with my plan?”

John quickly tried to recall what Sherlock had been saying while he had been lost in thought.

“It’s a beautiful estate; I used to spend my summers there. I think you’ll quite-”

“No!” John said. “I mean, yes. Yes, let’s go, but not this afternoon. I have an… errand to run.”

Sherlock’s brow knotted again. “An errand?”

“Yes. A quick one. Then we can go tomorrow. It sounds… lovely.” John cursed his slow reactions, feeling sick deep in the pit of his stomach as he saw Sherlock’s face morph from confusion to wary watchfulness.

“What errand?” Sherlock said evenly.

“Just a quick one. About my… my study. Of the morgues, you recall?”

“Ah.”  Sherlock’s face cleared, but only for a moment. “You need to go to Glasgow? You won’t be back from Glasgow by tomorrow, the train schedule doesn’t make it possible.”

“No, it-”

“I can come to Glasgow with you. It’s a little less bucolic than France, but it will do for our purposes.”

“No, ah, it’s here in London. It won’t take long.”

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side, and he studied John carefully. “You’re lying to me,” he said, his voice half wonder and half horror.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God_ , John thought. He was face to face with the most observant man in the world, who could read a lie on a man’s face as though he were reading a newspaper. “Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock’s voice went hard. “I know the signs, you remember? Yes, heart rate accelerated, a faint blush in the face and neck, increased perspiration, and there! The darting of the eyes to the left. Why are you lying to me?”

“Sherlock, please listen to me.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, I think I see. This situation with this Wilde fellow, the threat of arrest, has rattled you. You wish to cut ties with me and run, remove yourself from the danger that our relationship has become.”

John’s head buzzed with fear.  “No. No.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and paced the room, his arms gesticulating in anger. “Perhaps find a woman for you to marry to completely remove the hint of homosexuality from your character. Perhaps that simpering maid at the Cubitt estate, I’m sure she’d be willing in a moment to-”

“Sherlock, Sherlock, stop.” John stood and captured Sherlock’s face in his hands. “That’s not it at all. I can’t explain right now but-”

Sherlock shook himself free from John’s grasp. “There’s nothing to explain, John. You owe me nothing. I’m sure the last few days have been a pleasant dalliance for you, but in light of this turn of events, I understand you wanting to separate yourself from scandal. Go and find yourself a wife. For me, there is always the cocaine bottle.”

John swallowed hard to keep from vomiting. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him to look John in the eye. “Don’t do that. That’s manipulating me, Sherlock, and I won’t stand for it. And it’s not necessary. You said I owe you nothing, that’s not true – I owe you everything. I’m not leaving you, not ever. Even if the police knocked on the door this moment, I wouldn’t leave you. All right?”

Sherlock collapsed a little into John’s arms, the tension draining out of him in a moment. “Then why are you lying to me?” he said, his voice low and lost.

John pulled Sherlock into his arms and held him tight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. There’s just some things I can’t tell you right now. I’ll tell you everything when we’re safe away, in France. I promise. But for now, Sherlock, you must trust me.” He raised Sherlock up to standing, leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s, and looked deep into his eyes. “Do you trust me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock paused, and it felt to John as though a hundred years passed, until Sherlock said on a soft exhalation of breath, “Yes.”

John kissed him. “Thank you.” He pulled back and looked him in the eye. “There is nothing for you to worry about, all right? I love you, that’s not changed because of a headline in the Telegraph.”

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip.

“When’s the first train to Dover in the morning?”

“10:05,” Sherlock said without hesitation.

“Perfect.” John kissed him again, and this time Sherlock responded. John felt more of Sherlock’s tension leave his body. “Now. You get a telegram off to your brother, and we’ll pack.”

They decided to pack light, so as to prevent suspicion at the train station; it didn’t matter to John, as he only had the one suitcase anyway. He laid the gun on top of his spare change of clothes, then hesitated – he would only be able to take his journal through the net, and nothing else. Leaving his suitcase behind with his gun would provide Sherlock some additional security that he would return.

He decided to leave now; leaving at ten o’clock tonight would not be believable for an errand. He could write some more at the London Library, then be at St. Paul’s in plenty of time for the drop at midnight.

He brought his suitcase down and set it in the sitting room, then went into Sherlock’s room.  Sherlock was dashing around the room, placing items on the bed, putting some things back away.

“Two suitcases, maximum, love,” John said, grinning.

“It’s impossible, John,” Sherlock snapped. “We have no clue how long we’ll need to be gone for, and what if I need to consult my Grey’s Anatomy?”

John knew already there would be at least three large suitcases. He crossed to Sherlock and patted his shoulder, kissed the top of his head. “I’m off,” he said. “I’ll be back by morning.”

From above, he saw Sherlock press his lips together, hesitate, then nod. Sherlock drew John’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You’re not taking your gun?”

How Sherlock knew John wasn’t carrying his gun without actually looking at John, he would never know. “I don’t need it, Sherlock,” he said. “I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Be careful,” Sherlock said, and returned to his packing, and John left.

**

John found a secluded corner of the London Library to write up the last of his notes. He found himself checking his pocket watch anxiously every ten minutes, resenting every moment he had to be away from Sherlock. He wondered how quickly he could finish his business at Oxford and return. _But I’ve a fucking time machine,_ he thought _. I can be back five minutes after I leave._

He had a late supper at a pub, enjoying the rich taste of the food and the sharp tang of the ale. He hoped Mrs. Hudson would make Sherlock eat supper tonight; he tended not to eat when he was distracted from a case or upset. At the very least they could have a proper breakfast before heading out in the morning.

At eleven, he went down to St. Paul’s. He sat on the same bench he had sat on the day he’d arrived, and thought about everything that had happened to him during this drop; how much it had changed him. He was in love, and he couldn’t wait to begin his life with Sherlock. It was a pity they had to leave London, but as he recalled, the furor over Wilde’s trial died down after a while, and although it took some time, the trial set into motion the movement towards gay rights.

He found himself pacing in the alleyway for the last fifteen minutes before midnight, watching anxiously for the glitter of the net opening. Just as Big Ben boomed the last stroke of twelve, he saw it; he grinned and strode through.

He walked into a storm of excited babbling and noise. As the net lifted, he saw that the lab was filled with people, at least twenty, all chatting and murmuring to each other.

T.J. was at the comp, and he looked exhausted. Professor Lassiter was standing over him, pointing and speaking rapidly and snappishly. Clearly T.J. wasn’t moving quickly enough for Lassiter, and Lassiter rapped his knuckles against the top of the comp.

John barely had time to frown at the situation, when someone was pulling on his arm.

“Come on, move!” said a woman with tightly curled hair. “There’s another rendez-vous in five minutes, hurry up.”

John stumbled out of the net area and towards the knot of people. He recognized some of them now – Veronica was all in black, her face startlingly painted as a skull; Jen was in a poodle skirt, her hair in a high ponytail. He sidled over to them.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Oh.” He could see Veronica blushing under her makeup. “I was in New Orleans, 1923.”

“No, I mean here. What’s Lassiter doing here? Why is T.J. on the comp? He’s from Brasenose, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know why. I haven’t seen Bahdri in a few days.”

“What’s everyone standing around for?”

“Not sure either. Lassiter told us to stay, but hasn’t said why.”

He turned to Jen, but she shrugged as well. “No idea. I’ve been here two hours, they pulled me out three days early. Michael was here before me, though.”

Michael heard his name and came over. “Hey John. I think you’re the second last, it’s just Marie to come through now.”

“Do you know what’s happening?” John said.

Michael frowned. “Well, I don’t know for sure, but the rumour is that Lassiter’s shutting the whole program down.”


	15. “Zero at the Bone”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Announcement – Crossed Lines – Indiana and Iran – the Passage of Time – the Onset of Despair

“What?” John said. His guts froze.

“Don’t quote me on that,” Michael said. “It’s only rumour.”

“But he can’t do that,” John said. “Where’s Dunworthy?”

“Hey, you were the one that got stuck with the Victorian morgue study, weren’t you?” Veronica said. “You poor sod.”

“I like your mustache,” Jen said.

“I have to go back,” John said.

“Wait, here comes Marie,” Michael said.

The net shimmered, and Marie appeared, with Colin beside her. At first John thought that the net was still working on her, then he realized that she was wearing a glittering evening gown. The sequins on the gown flickered as she pounded on Colin’s arm and shoulder while sputtering a stream of expletive laden French.

“The hell?” she yelled at Colin. “I was just about to speak with _Gene Kelly_ , and then you had to show up and drag me away!”

“Sorry,” Colin muttered. He looked both worried and abashed, despite the tuxedo.

“Is that everyone?” Lassiter said imperiously.

The room fell silent, and everyone heard T.J. say with a sigh, “Yes.”

“Good.” Lassiter turned to the motley crowd of history graduate students, in their varied styles of clothes. “An official notice will be going out shortly, but since you’re here I will take the time to inform you personally.”

“What an arse,” Michael whispered, and Jen shushed him.

“I regret to inform you that due to incompetence and a failure to follow procedure, a divergence has been created. This has resulted in a massive issue with the time travel program. An investigation is now underway, but until such time the labs will be shut down. There will be no further field studies for the foreseeable future.”

There was an immediate clamour of protest, so no one heard John saying, “No. No. No.”

“Damnit, I wanted to do 17th century Spain next,” said Jen.

“I have to go back,” John said. Panic started to well up through his body.

“What, the morgue study?” Veronica said. “That sounded deadly dull.”

“I have to-” John stopped himself, realizing that he was about to blurt out the truth. He couldn’t say he needed to go back because he’d fallen in love; that was against every rule in the department. He’d not only never be let near a lab again, they’d throw him out of Oxford. “I have to finish,” he said lamely.

Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate,” he said. “Dunworthy will understand.”

Dunworthy. He had to speak with Dunworthy. “Where is he? He’s head of history at Balliol, why is Lassiter here and not Dunworthy?”

“Dunno.” Veronica shrugged. “I should call him too. How am I going to finish my thesis on voodoo practices if I can’t go back? It was supposed to be 18th century Haiti next.”

John felt a violent jerk on his shoulders. He turned to protest and saw Waters from the costume department trying to yank his jacket off his body. “The hell?”

“All costumes back to the costume department,” she said, still pulling.

“Well, don’t strip him here in the lab,” snapped Veronica. “Where are your clothes, John?”

John pulled the jacket back on and glared at Waters, while trying to remember what he had done three months earlier. “At home. I think.”

“Are you time-lagged?” Michael peered at John closely. “You were gone for a long time, right? Bound to have some lag.”

“Christ, Waters, let him get home and sleep and get you the costume tomorrow,” Veronica said.

“You had better,” Waters said. “Marie already snuck out with her gown.” She let go of the jacket reluctantly and stomped off to tell Colin to return his tuxedo.

“Go home and change, and for God’s sake don’t forget to return your costume,” Michael said. “Waters will come to your flat, you know. Want to grab a pint tomorrow?”

“I have to ring Dunworthy,” John said, and ran out of the lab.

**

John’s flat was dusty and stale, and he barely recognized it as a place where he lived. Home, he realized, was now large rooms crammed with books and papers, and smelling of pipe smoke, with large windows letting the weak London sun in.

He sat down and rang Dunworthy but the line was engaged. No doubt every other history student was calling him too. He tried again, realizing that his hands were shaking, but no answer.

_Bahdri_ , he thought. _Bahdri will know what’s going on_. But there was no answer there either.

He rang every history student he knew, but no one knew anything more than what Lassiter had said. It appeared that he had more information than anyone else, having heard Lassiter’s announcement in the lab, which had merely confirmed some rumours and denied others.

His vidder pinged at one point, but it was just a group message from Lassiter to the history department, more or less repeating what he had said in the lab.

It was nearly nine in the evening before Bahdri finally picked up. He looked exhausted, as tired as T.J. had looked when John had come through.

“John?” Bahdri squinted in the screen. “Oh, you’re back.”

“What the hell is going on, Bahdri?”

“Damned if I know,” Bahdri said. He rubbed at his eyes. “I was prepping for Nicholas to go through to the Falkland Islands, and Lassiter came in and shut us down. He wouldn’t let me run any rendez-vous either, just brought in his own tech from Magdalene.”

“T.J.?”

“Yeah. Are you time-lagged? You look pretty wired.”

“I’m not lagged, I’m just – I need to get back, Bahdri.”

Bahdri was already shaking his head. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. You know what Lassiter’s like.”

“It’s urgent.”

“If you’re worried about the morgue study, I’m sure Dunworthy will talk to the funder.” Bahdri’s tone gentled a bit. “I know you don’t like leaving a job unfinished, John.”

“It’s not that, it’s just – I have to go back. Bahdri, are there any labs left open?”

“I’m pretty sure Lassiter closed them all down.” Bahdri yawned hugely. “Look, my phone’s been ringing off the hook too, all day. It’s after ten. Let me get some sleep, and I’ll call some of the other techs in the morning, okay? You get some sleep too, John.”

John rang off, and immediately tried Dunworthy again. All he got was a buzzing noise – Dunworthy had clearly turned off his vidder for the night.

John left his vidder on and running. He laid down on his bed, still dressed in his tweed suit. He let his hand brush the place on his leg where the bullet had grazed him, and said quietly, “I’ll get back to you soon, Sherlock.”

**

He slept fitfully, with vague dreams of searching for his gun, then of Sherlock’s voice just outside of his hearing. He got up just before dawn and made a strong coffee, wincing at the metallic bitterness of it.

He tried Dunworthy again but got the same buzz. After a few tries he was able to get hold of T.J., waking him up.

“Lassiter had me working the comp for eight hours straight,” he grumbled. “I’m just glad everyone came in all right, by the end I could hardly see the numbers.”

“Why you? Why not Bahdri, or Nolan?”

T.J. shrugged. “You know Lassiter, doesn’t trust anyone that’s not from his college.”

“Do you know of any techs that still have permissions in the labs?”

T.J. was already shaking his head before John had finished his sentence. “I don’t even have permission anymore.”

John asked for the names and numbers of all the techs that T.J. knew, and started ringing each of them. They all told him the same thing, they no longer had access to the labs, and they didn’t know what had happened to make Lassiter shut the program down.  John asked each to give him the names of any other techs they knew of, and soon he had a longish list.

He spent the day ringing each one, reaching some immediately, leaving messages for others. Between each he tried Dunworthy again, unsuccessfully.

The day blurred, and he didn’t realize what time it was until Margot snapped at him for calling so late. He gave up for the night. He knew he was exhausted but couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest. He kept thinking that one more call might offer a solution, open a door to get him back home to Sherlock. He spent the night transferring his notes to a datakey for Dunworthy.

Bahdri rang him the next morning. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but your line’s been engaged.”

John cursed himself for not thinking of that. “Sorry. Have you found out?”

Bahdri sighed. “A bit. It’s all still rumour, of course. That there was some massive slippage on some drops and Lassiter panicked. You know how risk-averse he is.”

“Any idea when he might open it up?”

“No. Dunworthy might know. Have you talked to him yet?”

“I can’t even get through.”

“Why do you need to go back, John? I would have thought you’d be itching to finish, you didn’t even want to go in the first place.”

“I – there was a part of the study I didn’t get a chance to finish.”

“You had three months, John. It’s not like you to procrastinate. What happened?”

“Let me know if you hear from Dunworthy? And ask him to ring me?”

John waiting for a few more hours, this time staying off the line altogether, so Dunworthy could get through. When the silence of the phone started to get to him, he decided to just go over to Dunworthy’s office, see if he was in. Perhaps talk to Finch – Finch always seemed to know where Dunworthy was.

He realized he was still wearing the tweed Victorian suit he had come through in. Wearing that on the streets, even the streets of Oxford, would draw too much attention, so he reluctantly changed, laying the wool clothes out carefully. His own clothes felt unnatural, uncomfortable.

He finally found Dunworthy in the library. Dunworthy flinched when John quietly called his name, but relaxed when he turned and saw John.

“Mr. Dunworthy,” John said. He held out the datakey. “There’s the notes on the morgue study. But I didn’t finish, and I need to go-”

“Thank you, John,” Dunworthy said, taking the key. “I’m sorry, I know you’ve been trying to reach me. I’ve been on the phone constantly with enraged history dons. Come to my rooms, let’s have tea.”

In Dunworthy’s cramped and crowded rooms, John tried to stop his leg from bouncing in suppressed nervousness as Dunworthy poured tea and sat back with a sigh.

“I don’t mind telling you it’s a mess, John. And I’ve seen my share of messes. From what I’ve heard, one of Lassiter’s students at Magdalene was trying to go back to 1957 Indiana, and ended up in 1978 Iran – a twenty one year and a huge geographical slippage. It took them ages to get the fix, and when they did they had a hell of a time extracting him. Then they looked back and found that the last several drops had had an unacceptable degree of slippage, none as great as that but still, it should have been caught earlier. The tech couldn’t figure out what went wrong, and Lassiter called Dr. Ishiwaka to ask him why there would be such slippage. Ishiwaka told him about divergence and creating anomalies, and now Lassiter thinks that’s what happened. I told him that the system was built to prevent such things from happening, but I couldn’t explain what happened with the drop either.

“Then Lassiter held a meeting of all the heads of history for all the colleges, and railroaded them into shutting the program down. I was the only dissenting vote. I’ve been trying to get through to Ishiwaka myself, to have him explain to Lassiter properly how the system works, but now Ishiwaka seems to have gone on sabbatical and no one will give me the number of where he is.

“So all the labs have been locked, even my own labs. Lassiter won’t even take my calls. Every time I protest, someone suggests that it might be time for me to retire. I’ll keep trying to reach Ishiwaka, but…”

Dunworthy raised his hands in a helpless shrug, and let them fall back down. He looked exhausted, and angry, and defeated. In that moment, John knew it was useless. He understood how university bureaucracy worked; it could be months, years, before the heads would agree on anything.

He stood. “Thank you, Mr. Dunworthy. You’ve done all you could.”

Dunworthy shook his hand. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to finish the study. You’re a conscientious man; you did your best too. Go get some sleep, John, you still look time-lagged. Come back on Monday and we’ll discuss that tenure track position we talked about before.”

John hardly heard him as he left the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't read the Willis books with the time travel concept, Ishiwaka is a time travel expert who built the theories about the space-time continuum and how to keep it consistent with the technology. Dunworthy, Bahdri, Lassiter, and Finch are also Connie Willis characters.


	16. “Pain – has an Element of Blank”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calculations and Continuums – Dismal Possibilities – Grief – the Sacrifice of Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a serious depressive episode, but I promise you that everything will be okay.

John made his way back to his rooms, barely seeing the buildings and people around him.

Twenty years slippage. Twenty _years_.

The average slippage was about two hours. Most drops were within one hour of the targeted time. The slippage tended to increase the farther back you went, so if they were aiming for 1957, only a hundred years earlier, and had twenty years slippage, God knows how much slippage he would have if he tried to get back to 1895.

He couldn’t go back to before he left; the continuum wouldn’t allow him to be in the same place twice. So it was after, or nothing.

Even slippage of a week would be disastrous in this case. There were three possibilities that could happen in a week:

One, Sherlock would wait for him, and the Met would very likely come to arrest him. Even if John wasn’t with him, there was enough suspicion of Sherlock from the Met that the convenient charge of ‘lewd behaviour’ would provide them with sufficient _schadenfreude_.  John shuddered at the thought of Sherlock at Reading Gaol, doing hard labour next to men who he had put in prison.

Two, Sherlock would not wait and go to France. John had no idea how he could track him down. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned his brother’s name, and anyway he had said that the estate belonged to his mother’s family, and he didn’t know her family name.

Third, and most terrible to contemplate, would be that Sherlock would give in to his weakness, his addiction. Cocaine in the Victorian era was not an exact science, no matter how careful Sherlock was, and if he was angry and upset at John for abandoning him, he might not be careful. He had said ‘a seven percent solution’ – that was enough cocaine to kill a strong man.

And that was with a week’s slippage as a best case scenario.

John let himself into his rooms as complete helplessness washed over him. He pulled his jacket off, throwing it in a corner. He went to the toilet, and slowly shaved his mustache off.

He had failed Sherlock. He had made a promise, and had failed him. Sherlock had believed him, and he had failed him.

No matter what, Sherlock was already dead. He had been dead for two hundred years.

John lay on his bed, curled in on himself and turned to the wall.

**

The days filled with a kind of grey mist. John stayed in his bed mostly, not having the will nor desire to go anywhere. He watched telly for a bit, but turned it off – it was too loud, the images too fast and bright.

When the yawning hunger in his belly got too much, he would go to his kitchen and eat, usually standing up over the sink. He tasted nothing, not even remembering what he’d eaten as soon as he’d finished.

His phone rang occasionally, but he ignored it. The only person he wanted to speak with was two hundred years away.

He slept for hours on end: sometimes with terrible dreams of Sherlock in his grave, or calling for John down a foggy alley. Sometimes there were no dreams, which made it feel as though he hadn’t slept at all. In many ways, he preferred the nightmares.

One night, he dreamt of a rhythmic thumping. He was dreaming of resting his head on Sherlock’s chest and listening to his heartbeat; then he opened his eyes and the sound didn’t stop. He staggered to the door and opened it.

Bahdri stood there, his fist raised to bang on the door again. “Christ, John, I was ready to break down the door. Why didn’t-”

Bahdri stopped and looked carefully at John. John was suddenly self-conscious: unshowered, several days of scraggly beard growth.

“Are you ill?” Bahdri said.

John gaped, his mind unable to form the words to describe what he was feeling. “Just – just a bit-”

Bahdri steered him to the sofa and sat next to him. “Dunworthy asked me to look in on you,” he said softly. “You – you missed your thesis defense, mate.”

“Oh.” John realized he had no idea what day it was, how much time he had been back, how much time had passed since he’d left Sherlock.

He was aware, vaguely, of Bahdri’s arm around him, supporting him. Bahdri’s voice was so quiet John had to strain to hear him. “Something happened to you, I think, when you were doing the Victorian study?”

John nodded. He sighed, and realized how very tired he was, despite the hours and days of sleeping. Then he told Bahdri everything.

He told Bahdri about the morgue at St. Bart’s, and how Sherlock Holmes had come so very close to guessing everything about John. He told him about the cases and how Sherlock had developed his own science of forensics and observation. He told him about falling in love with Sherlock, and finding out that his feelings were returned. He told him about the Wilde case, and the danger it represented for him and Sherlock, about France, and the cocaine, and Sherlock’s loyalty to John despite his own fears of abandonment.

Bahdri was silent for a long time once John had stuttered to a stop. His grip around John’s shoulders tightened.

“I never thought you’d be the kind of man to fall in love,” Bahdri said finally. “But trust you that when you did, you’d fall in love in the most complicated way possible.”

John smiled despite himself, felt his face cracking, and he wept for the first time since he’d come back.

**

Bahdri made him a meal, and he ate some of it. Bahdri also changed the sheets on John’s bed, and nodded understandingly when John said he wanted to sleep a bit. He hugged John before he left, holding him so hard that John nearly wept again. Then he left.

John fell back into his troubled dozing.

Time lost meaning to him. He slept in the middle of the day, ate absently by moonlight. He would watch telly for hours, even when there was nothing but advertisements on. He wondered if he might feel better if he went for a walk, decide to go out tomorrow, then not go at all.

Bahdri called every day, letting it ring and ring until John answered. They would have a quick conversation that John would promptly forget.

He wondered vaguely if he should call Professor Mackleroy and apologize, reschedule his defense; then realized he didn’t really care if he got his thesis. He’d had enough of history.

**

John was asleep, having a fitful dream about water and Sherlock falling into it, when he was awakened by a firm shake to his shoulder.

“John, wake up. I need you to wake up, mate.”

John cracked his eyes open to see Bahdri peering at him. “What is it?” he mumbled.

“Get up, John. Come on.”

Bahdri manhandled him upright on the edge of the sofa.  “Jesus, John, you look a mess. Go have a shower, okay? Right now.”

John was too dazed to protest, and found himself propelled into the washroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, and despite his own blurry state of mind, he had to agree with Bahdri – he did look a mess. He turned on the water.

He toweled himself off afterwards, feeling a little more alert. Bahdri knocked at the door and came in before John could respond. “Oh good, you didn’t drown. Excellent. Sit down on the toilet, we’re going to neaten up that pile of straw on your face.”

John sat obediently; he wasn’t sure if his legs would support him anyway. He was still weak. As Bahdri covered his face with shaving cream, John caught sight of his watch.

“Bahdri, it’s the middle of the night!”

“Shut it, John, do you want me to shave your nose off?”

“What’s going on?”

“Just-” Bahdri stopped shaving, and looking John in the eyes. “Just trust me, okay?”

John’s brow knotted. Bahdri’s face was lit up, as though he had a Christmas morning secret. He stared at him for a long time, then said, “All right.”

Bahdri shaved his face, carefully. John could almost feel the weight of the last few weeks falling away with his facial hair. He reached up and felt that Bahdri had left his mustache.

“Bahdri-”

“There,” Bahdri said.  “Get dressed, something clean if you’re able to find anything in this cesspool. And brush your teeth for God’s sake. Hurry.”

“Where am I going, Bahdri?”

Bahdri smiled at him, and the secretive look was still there, but there was a note of sadness as well. “You’ll see when you get there,” he said, and left the washroom.

Getting dressed was a blur, and Bahdri propelled him out of the flat and into a waiting cab. The initial burst of energy that had gotten him clean and dressed soon faded, and John spent the cab ride staring out the window at the streets as they passed. It was the first time he’d been outside since seeing Dunworthy, and he shivered in the cool midnight air.

When the cab pulled up, he realized they were outside the Jowett building, at a side entrance. He looked up at the darkened windows of the building, and looked at Bahdri in confusion.

“Isn’t it closed? It’s only – what time is it?”

But Bahdri produced a passcard, and with a furtive glance around, swiped it and pulled John in. The building was darkened except for emergency lights, casting the familiar hallways into a weird glow. Bahdri didn’t answer any of John’s increasingly curious questions, just pulled him along the corridors.

They came to a door that John recognized, but for the chains hanging loose from one of the door handles. A paper sign saying “Closed” was tacked over the plate on the door that John knew read “History Lab”.

“Bahdri,” John said. He didn’t seem to be able to put together a full sentence.

“Mr. Dunworthy will explain,” Bahdri said, and opened the door.

“Ah, you’re here, excellent,” Mr. Dunworthy said, looking up from a book as he sat by the comp. “The numbers finished running five minutes ago, Bahdri.”

“Good. Any anomalies?”

“None. Would you check again, though, please?”

Bahdri shoved a plastic carrier bag into John’s arms, and stepped up to the comp, immediately clicking at the keys. John opened the bag automatically, and saw his tweed suit folded neatly inside.

“I’m afraid you’ve caused a bit of a divergence, my boy,” Dunworthy said as John gaped up at him. “Bahdri came and told me about this contemp you met, this Sherlock Holmes. We can’t find a formal record of him, but we tested the probabilities and it seems likely that he’s a crisis point. It’s eighty-seven percent - was it eighty-seven, Bahdri?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“- Eighty-seven percent likelihood that at some point in his future, he prevented someone significant from being killed. For want of a nail, and so forth. So we need to send you back in order to correct the divergence, which will in turn balance the continuum and slippage will be restored to a more acceptable level.”

John stared at Dunworthy, speechless. “Mr. Dunworthy, I - I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

Bahdri laughed. John turned to glare at him, appalled that his friend would laugh at such a serious situation.

Dunworthy smiled, and then looked bashful. “At least, that’s what I’m going to tell the committee tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry, John, it wasn’t you,” Bahdri said, still grinning. “You telling me about your man Sherlock Holmes inspired me to investigate. I went and had a pint with Giles, who was the tech on the Indiana/Iran fiasco. Well, I had a pint, he had about five. Turns out that Giles has a massive drinking problem, and he was hungover and still a bit drunk when he programmed that drop. But he didn’t want to admit it to Lassiter, so he covered up his mistake.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t prove it - yet,” said Dunworthy. “And it will take some serious evidence for Lassiter to believe me over his own tech. And…” Dunworthy’s eyes went a bit soft as he looked at John. “Bahdri told me about you, and we - we decided that you couldn’t wait.”

“Thus the story about the crisis point. Hope you don’t mind, mate.”

“No, I - no.”

“Better get dressed, John, we can’t send you back like that, they’ll think you’re a navvy.”

Warmth spread through John’s chest, warmth that he hadn’t felt since he’d returned. He cleared his throat, licked his lips, tried to let what they were saying sink in. “Human error?”

“Human error,” Dunworthy said.

“You’re sending me – back?”

“If you want to go,” Dunworthy said gently.

“I do,” John said, his voice hoarse. “I do.” He pulled the clothes from the bag and began to dress quickly, his hands shaking.

“We’ve been running tests for a week now,” Bahdri said, his fingers still tapping at the console. “First some remotes, then some manned ones. Slippage is minimal, perhaps only one hour, but sometimes as high as thirty-six. But never higher, and location has been spot on every time.”

John was fully dressed now, and he turned his bowler hat nervously in his hands. “But – thirty-six hours – it might be too much. He might be gone, he might be – what if, if he-”

Dunworthy smiled again. “If not, put an ad in the Telegraph about your dog Hamish, that you want him home, and we’ll open the net again the night the ad appears. But I think you’ll find that he’ll still be there.”

“But how-”

Bahdri said, “It’s time, John. Security comes around in twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” John said. He took a deep breath, and said “Okay,” again. Then he walked over to Dunworthy and shook his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve taken a great risk here, for me.”

Dunworthy clasped his other hand over John’s, his eyes warm. “You’re a good man, John Watson,” he said. “It was worth the risk. Latimer’s an idiot and will pitch a fit, but it’s time I retired, anyway.”

John gave his hand another shake, then turned to Bahdri, and hugged him, freshly aware that if all went as he hoped, he would never see his friend again. “You crazy fiend, you,” he whispered.

“You’re the crazy one,” Bahdri said. He released John, and John could see his eyes were wet. “Go and be happy, John. You deserve to be happy.”

John could only nod. He crossed to the net and put his hat on. As the net closed over him, he saw Dunworthy raise his hand in farewell.


	17. “The Love of Thee – a Prism be”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voices in the Fog – Holding Back – a Thousand Questions – Promises Fulfilled

The net closed behind John, and as he blinked, he found himself in a darkened alley. His eyes were still dazzled from the bright lights of the lab, and it took him longer than usual to adjust. Was it the same alley as before, the one near St. Paul’s? It was quiet, and foggy, and dark, and could be any alley in the world, in any time.

He stopped, leaning against the rough brick of the wall, and considered what he had just done. He trusted Bahdri and Mr. Dunworthy, but there was always a certain amount of risk involved with a drop. What if they hadn’t actually resolved the divergence issue? He could be anywhere, anytime. And while Dunworthy had said that Sherlock would still be there – how did he really know that?

It didn’t matter. As long as he was in the right timeline, he would find Sherlock, whether he was in France or the graveyard, he would find him.

First things first. He needed to make sure of where and when he was. He straightened up, and walked with purpose out of the alley.

The fog was so thick he still couldn’t say for certain where he was. He heard a church bell, but wasn’t sure if it was St. Paul’s. He stepped into the street to see more clearly, then heard a voice, deep and sonorous, come out of the gloom.

“John?”

He turned toward the sound, moving towards it as though he was dreaming. He could barely see a tall, thin figure, wearing a cloak and hat, standing under a dim streetlight just down from the alley.

“Sherlock?”

He half ran to Sherlock, who stood stock still, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes either. Then Sherlock blinked and said a little loudly, “Excellent, Doctor Watson. I have a hansom cab waiting for us one street over. I expect you are tired from your journey.”

“Yes,” John said, his voice a whisper. “I - I am.”

Without another word, Sherlock turned and walked down the street, and John hastened to catch up, and walk beside him.

As they walked, John stole glances at Sherlock. He didn’t seem to have aged at all, but it was dark and the gas street lamps didn’t provide enough light for him to really tell. He could see Sherlock’s lips pressed together in a thin white line.

A street further, and John saw a cab waiting, the driver asleep on his seat. Sherlock woke him with a shake on his leg. “Thank you, Billy,” he said, and opened the door. He helped John into the small cab, climbing in after him, then rapped on the roof of the cab.

“Baker Street, sir?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said sharply, and the cab jolted into motion.

John wanted to ply Sherlock with questions – what day was it? How did he know to wait for John there? Was he angry with John? But Sherlock sat and stared out the window of the cab with a silence that was palpable and did not invite conversation. Their legs pressed together, and John could feel vibrating tension through Sherlock’s body. He began to fear that despite everything he had done to get back, everything that Dunworthy and Bahdri had risked to get him here, would be for naught if Sherlock didn’t want him still.

At last the cab pulled up onto Baker Street. Sherlock leapt out and paid Billy with a note that John knew well exceeded the normal cost of a cab fare.  John followed, more slowly, his body still weak from his weeks of poor diet and isolation.

They stepped inside 221B, Sherlock holding the door open for John, his face still inscrutable. John stepped in behind him, noting the lack of light from Mrs Hudson’s rooms as Sherlock silently drew the door closed behind them.  Sherlock still didn’t look at him as he crossed to the stairs and began to climb.

Passing through the entryway at the top, Sherlock carefully closed the door. John said, “Sherlock,” just as Sherlock turned and grabbed John, knocking his bowler hat off his head. He held John so tightly John’s ribs creaked, but he hugged Sherlock back just as fiercely with relief. He tucked his face into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in deep gulps the scent he never thought he’d smell again.

Sherlock’s hands gripped at the material of John’s jacket at the back, pulling John closer to him in desperation. John could hear him whispering something, over and over, and ducked his head to hear.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, John.”

“Me too, me too,” John murmured. “I didn’t mean to be away from you for so long, I didn’t want to, I didn’t.”

“I thought – I thought-”

“I didn’t.”

After a time, they calmed, and desperate grips relaxed into strokes and pats along each other’s shoulders and necks and hair. Then Sherlock gave a long tired sigh, and pulled away just enough to lean his forehead against John’s.

“John, I have much to tell you, and I have a thousand questions for you as well. But for now, could we just be together?”

“I’d like that,” John said. Then they kissed, as though thirsty and given water.

Sherlock broke the kiss, and ran his fingertips along John’s shaved face, along the bristles of his mustache. His brows knotted in some confusion, then he shook his head minutely, and took John’s hand.

In Sherlock’s room, Sherlock lit a few candles as John stood beside the bed, watching him. Sherlock set the last candle on the mantelpiece, then turned to John and began to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.

Sherlock removed all of John’s clothes, slowly and reverently, as though each article, as well as the skin revealed, were objects to be treasured. John tried to work on Sherlock’s buttons, but found that exhaustion and relief were taking their toll on his hands and he was clumsy. Sherlock gave him an understanding smile, and took off his own clothes.

Once they were both nude, Sherlock coaxed John to sit in the middle of the bed, and Sherlock sat opposite him, his long legs folded around John’s waist.

“Let me look at you, John,” Sherlock said. “I feared I would forget the details of your face, your hair, your body. Let me remind myself.”

“How long have I – what day is it?” John said.

“May 30. You have been gone from me five days.”

John slumped in relief. Not gone for very long at all, but still enough time to make Sherlock worry he wouldn’t return. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Shh,” Sherlock said. “Let me.”

So John let him. Sherlock’s fingers traced the outline of his face, ruffled through his hair. His long hands cupped around John’s sides, and a look of alarm crossed Sherlock’s face as he felt the prominence of John’s ribs. John wondered how much weight he had lost while he was away.

“Later,” he said. He lifted one of Sherlock’s hands and kissed it. “I promise, I will tell you everything later.”

Sherlock smiled, and visibly pushed away the worry from his face. “All right.”

Sherlock’s examination continued, and despite his fatigue, John felt himself rising, his erection growing and filling in response to his lover. He let his own hands run over Sherlock’s body, revelling in being with him again. As he ran his hands over Sherlock’s belly, Sherlock’s cock, hard and swaying, bumped against his wrist. As he took Sherlock in hand, Sherlock groaned and slid his hands down to John’s cock, pulling it into full hardness.

John felt himself surrounded by Sherlock – the warmth and stuffiness of the room, the light of the candles throwing shadows against Sherlock’s face and body, the warmth of his hand on John’s skin, the softness of Sherlock’s own skin. He knew now that this wasn’t an elaborate, desperately hopeful dream he was having back in Oxford.  He was here, Sherlock was here, and all was well.

He sighed, and then groaned, the tension and warmth of an impending orgasm already gathering in his body. Sherlock’s hands paused in their continuing exploration of John, and wound up into his hair. He tilted their heads together, and locked his unearthly coloured eyes on John’s. John’s hand fumbled, and Sherlock gently pushed it away and gathered both their cocks into his one large palm. They were both leaking so much it made the glide smooth and easy, and their breath stuttered in tandem.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes as long as he could, until his climax hit him and his eyes slid shut by instinct. It came over him like a sigh and an earthquake all at once, saying with his breath and his voice and his body, “I’m here, I’m here, I will never leave again.” He was at the height of it when he heard Sherlock’s guttural gasp, and felt the splatter of semen on his belly, dripping down and mingling with his own.

Eyes still closed, John let his head slide from Sherlock’s forehead to his shoulder, and Sherlock mirrored him. They sat there while they calmed, holding each other close in a knot made of their bodies. John’s exhaustion washed over him again.

“Lie down, my love,” Sherlock murmured. He helped John slip down onto the bed, and arranged his head on a pillow. John was dimly aware of Sherlock rising, heard the splash of water from the washstand, felt the cool of water cleaning his chest, his belly, his genitals. He heard the puff of Sherlock blowing out the candles, and the rustle of sheets as he returned to the bed. John had just enough energy left to turn to Sherlock and entangle himself in Sherlock’s arms.

Only when Sherlock’s arms were around him, and he was close enough to feel the puff of Sherlock’s breath against his cheek, did he allow himself to sink down into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's two more chapters after this, and of course I just realized that the holidays are coming up. So I'm going to post Chapter 18 on Boxing Day and the final chapter on New Year's Eve. Sound like a plan?


	18. “I live with Him – I see His Face – I go no more away”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discovered – An Unexpected Ally – a Strange Visitor – Truth Unfolded – ‘World Enough, and Time’

John slept deeply and long. It was a different kind of sleep from his depressive dozing back in Oxford; this was a restful, nightmare-free sleep, aided by the comfort of his lover’s body nearby.

He woke to a bright, sunlit room, Sherlock still in his arms, and to the sound of a surprised “Oh!”

A distinctly  _ feminine _ sounding “Oh!”

John’s eyes flew open at the same time as Sherlock’s, and they both whipped their heads around to see Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway.

There was a moment of perfect silence and stillness, then Mrs. Hudson said quietly, “Excuse me,” and slipped out.

Sherlock turned to John, mirroring his look of horror, then they were both frantically scrambling to get out of bed. Sherlock threw a spare housecoat to John, who tied it on despite its comically long sleeves. His hands were shaking. Mrs. Hudson could very easily go to the police; they could be arrested by noon.

They rushed out of the bedroom to the lounge, to find Mrs. Hudson fussing with the breakfast tray.

“Mrs. Hudson-” Sherlock began.

“Please excuse my intrusion, gentlemen,” Mrs. Hudson said quickly. “It was not my intention to invade your – privacy, I just -”

“- I must beg of you to -”

“- I was concerned that Mr. Holmes had – well, it’s late in the morning, and -”

“- absolutely imperative that -”

“- I was worried about Mr. Holmes, he’s been disconsolate while you’ve been away, Doctor Watson.”

“- must ask for your discretion -”

At that, Mrs. Hudson burst into laughter, and Sherlock and John stopped short.

“You mustn’t worry about that, gentlemen. It’s your own business, so far as I’m concerned.” She stooped to pour the tea, ignoring Sherlock and John’s dumbfounded faces. “It’s a crying shame, what they’ve done to that Mr. Wilde, putting him in gaol when he hadn’t hurt a soul. Such a talented man, so funny! I rather liked that novel of his, about the young man and the picture. Do you know, the young man in that book reminded me of my nephew. He’s homesteading in Canada, you see, with a friend of his from school. He writes me quite regularly, he’s very happy there. Now, I’ll leave you to have your breakfast. I’ll bring up some more scones for your tea though – you’re very thin, Doctor Watson.”

“Thank you,” John said automatically, with Sherlock echoing it like a schoolboy.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at them, with a twinkle in her eye that John couldn’t believe was imagined. Sherlock cleared his throat, stood up straight and dignified, despite his housecoat and bare chest and legs.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m afraid that we will be departing this afternoon for the continent for some time.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock. “For a case, I assume?” she said carefully.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, equally carefully. “For a case.”

She nodded sharply. “That’s what I’ll tell any callers then. On the continent, on a case. No forwarding address. Until further notice. I’ll pack a supper basket for you, for the train. Good morning, gentlemen.”

She left, closing the door behind her. John stared at Sherlock, who looked just as stunned as John felt.

“That was… unexpected,” Sherlock said at last.

A huge bubble of laughter burst out of John’s mouth, and he fell back on the sofa, giggling helplessly. Sherlock’s deep chuckle soon joined him. This was more than just a reaction to Mrs. Hudson, John knew – this was relief, and joy, and love released.

“Come then, John,” Sherlock said, wiping his eyes. “Eat your breakfast. Mrs. Hudson is correct, you are too thin.”

Suddenly John was hungry, ravenously hungry, and he tucked into the breakfast tray with abandon. There were muffins, and kippers, and blood pudding, and eggs, and rich tea, and it was all delicious in a way that food hadn’t been for weeks. Sherlock merely poured himself a cup of tea, and sat back, watching John as though that was food enough for him.

“I hope I wasn’t presumptuous, John,” Sherlock said when John slowed.

“About?”

“Going to France. Do you wish to go still?”

“I take it that it is still necessary?”

“Sadly, yes. There has been a wave of arrests, but not as great as the wave of Londoners suddenly going on holiday to the continent, or Scotland. I believe it would be prudent. But-”

Sherlock paused and looked uncertain; John cocked an eyebrow at him. “But?”

“You still wish to go with me?”

John’s heart melted a little when he heard the masked vulnerability in the question. “I do. I should like to never be parted from you again, Sherlock. I didn’t want to be parted from you before, didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

“I believe you, John. And as I mentioned last night, I have a story to tell. Finish your meal whilst I tell it, then I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. I will answer everything you ask.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled at him, and briefly reached out and touched his fringe, as though reassuring himself that John was real.  Then he nodded and began.

“The first day, when you did not return as you had promised – no need to apologize again, my dear John – I’m afraid that I allowed my emotions to run the full gamut. Initially I felt fear, that you had been arrested or met with some violence. Were the circumstances other than what they are, I would have made inquiries to the police, but was concerned that such actions would create more suspicion.

“I am sorry to admit that on the second day, my emotions later turned to anger: anger that you might have decided to leave London without me, to abandon me in light of the risk that our relationship now held. This soon made way to despair, as I began to consider a life without you, and with the mistaken knowledge that you had deliberately left me.

“It was on this second day that I received a visitor. At first I was disinclined to receive him, but Mrs. Hudson said he was insistent and she was insistent in her turn. I believe that she too was concerned for your welfare, and mine.

“He was an unusual visitor: he brought no calling card, carried no valise or baggage, and his clothes were most peculiar, with a suit from thirty years ago but a hat of a styling I have never seen. I found myself unable to make any satisfactory deductions from his appearance. He failed to offer his name right away, and said he could only stay a few short minutes. Despite this unusual behaviour, I decided to listen to him, thinking that he was bringing me a case which might distract me from your absence.

“He quickly assured me that he did not have a case, but rather was bringing news of you. This of course got my attention. He said that you were unexpectedly delayed, and were quite unable to return at the moment, but that it was your express wish to return at the earliest opportunity.

“You can imagine that I was at that point desperate for any news of you at all, and asked the gentleman of your whereabouts. He said he was unable to tell me. He seemed to choose his words with care; he knew where you were, but was  _ unable _ to name it.

“He then proceeded to ask me some questions about myself, and our working relationship, and how we had met. I began to become afraid that he was a police officer in disguise – and a very poor disguise at that – trying to lure me into an admission of our private relationship so that he could arrest me. I fear I may have betrayed that fear in my expression, despite my best efforts; I believe that I was less able than usual to hide my true feelings because of your extended absence and the resulting worry. However, the visitor hastened to assure me that he had only your and my best interests at heart, that he was your supervisor, and moreover looked upon you as a son, and wished only to restore you to me.

“He then told me that he hoped you should be able to return shortly, within the week. And then, most oddly, he told me that I should wait by the alley by St. Paul’s by night for your return, as you may be in a weakened state and may have difficulty in making your own way back to Baker Street. He emphasized the importance of being patient and waiting, and that it was of the utmost importance that I not wait in the alley itself, nor even look down it while waiting.

“Then he looked at a miniature clock that was strapped to his wrist – I have never seen such a thing – and said that he must go, and immediately. He requested my promise that I would remain in London until your return, and reiterated the import of not looking down the alley while I waited. Then he left hastily.”

John’s astonishment had been growing steadily as Sherlock’s story went on. He had a theory that he needed to confirm immediately.

“The man that visited you, Sherlock. What did he look like?”

“Of average height, thin, perhaps eleven stone. Approximately 68 years of age. Hazel eyes; wears spectacles but wasn’t wearing them when I saw him, possibly for the sake of vanity as it was obvious he couldn’t see very well. Scar over the left temple, by the hairline.”

A scar. John remembered Dunworthy telling him about being on the streets of London during a drop into WWII, during the blitz, and not being able to get away from a bomb site in time, and a piece of shrapnel flying towards him. He got back to the drop just in time, returning to Oxford with blood dripping down his face.

Sherlock was looking at him. “You know him, of course.”

Dunworthy had come back. They had mentioned doing tests to check the slippage. He must have come back to test the system, and taken the opportunity to seek out Sherlock, to ask him to be patient. Possibly saved Sherlock’s life; definitely saved John’s.

“James Dunworthy. He’s my – yes, supervisor, I suppose. When was that?”

“That was Monday. These three nights since, I have waited in the street near the alley for you, in accordance to the man’s instructions.” Sherlock leaned forward, his brows knitting together in the way they did when he was puzzled. “I obeyed his instructions carefully, but I know every alley in London. I know that alley by St. Paul’s, and I know there is no door at its end, no other way to enter or exit it except via the street.

“You have been gone from me five days, but you have lost a stone or more since then. You shaved this morning but it was to remove several weeks’ worth of growth. Your mustache is different from when you left me, as though shaved and regrown differently. You would not, or could not, tell me why you had to leave, nor where you had to go. And this visit from your Mr. Dunworthy, while reassuring, did not actually answer any of my questions. With this insufficient data, the only conclusion I have been able to reach is this: John, are you a – a spy of some sort?”

John chuckled, then laughed a bit harder at the look of consternation on Sherlock’s face. Then he sobered, and reached for Sherlock’s hand.

“I promised you I would tell you everything, and I will. No, I am not a spy. But first, answer me this: do you know me to be honest?”

“I do,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

“Do you believe me to be sane?”

Sherlock laughed. “Well, you profess to love a man like myself, so I must question your sanity in that regard. But in every other way, yes.”

“Then you must believe me when I tell you that what I am about to tell you is the truth.”

Then he told him everything.

**

When he finished, Sherlock sat in silence. He was blinking rapidly, and while John knew that this meant he was valiantly trying to make sense of John’s story in his head, after a time he began to worry that Sherlock would come to the conclusion that John was mad, and have him committed.

After a couple of minutes, however, Sherlock took a deep breath as though wakening. “Well, then, John; I must say that was not the explanation I was expecting.”

“You believe me?”

“My dear John, when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. It actually allows many other things about you to make more sense. Your wound, for instance – it was made by a caliber of bullet with which I am unfamiliar, and I am familiar with every bullet made up to this year. If the wound was received now, you would certainly have succumbed to it; but you recovered no doubt due to the medical advances of your time. What I cannot understand is this: that you chose, willingly, to return to this time and not stay in your own?”

John took Sherlock’s hands in his. “I had to come back to you. I want to be with you. No matter what time you live in, I would want to live in it with you.”

Sherlock smiled at him, a tender, lopsided smile. “Astonishing. You always astonish me, John.” He squeezed John’s hands, and John’s heart swelled with love for this amazing man he had found, despite all odds of time.

Then Sherlock leapt up and began to pace. “That said, we will need to work together to establish a more believable story to remove any hint of suspicion of your past. I knew when I met you that there were some things that didn’t add up, and while that made you utterly fascinating to me, and while I grant that few are as observant as I, we must eliminate all areas of concern. The Edinburgh history simply won’t work, John; I love you, but accents are not your forte, and difficult for most to maintain on an ongoing basis. We require something that would explain your absence from England for a long period of time, something that has some hint of truth to it, but not the entire truth, of course-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, half laughing, “when is that train to Dover?”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “Ah. Yes. We must to France. We cannot possibly make the 10:05 train, even if we left this minute; we will take the 2:30 train. I still have your valise, untouched since you left; is there anything else you need?”

“Not a thing. Just you.”

“I do not believe I can fit myself in a valise,” Sherlock said, grinning. “I am fully packed as well. Then perhaps we – I wonder if-” Sherlock blushed and suddenly found the tie of his robe quite fascinating. “It is doubtful Mrs. Hudson will come up again this morning, and I would very much like to make love with you again before we go. Can we, John? Have we enough time?”

John stood, and took Sherlock by the hand. “Yes, Sherlock. We have time.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter - an epilogue of sorts. Will publish New Year's Eve.


	19. Epilogue – “This is my letter to the World”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vineyards and Tea – the Whereabouts of Servants – Privacy – a Belated Present – the Beginning of History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here dwell together still two men of note  
> Who never lived and so can never die:  
> How very near they seem, yet how remote  
> That age before the world went all awry.  
> But still the game’s afoot for those with ears  
> Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:  
> England is England yet, for all our fears—  
> Only those things the heart believes are true.
> 
> A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane  
> As night descends upon this fabled street:  
> A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,  
> The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.  
> Here, though the world explode, these two survive,  
> And it is always eighteen ninety-five.  
> \- by Vincent Starrett

France was unfairly beautiful.

The Vernet estate looked over its own twenty acres of vineyards, plus the rolling hills with fruit trees beyond. It was full summer now, and warm enough to seek shade wherever possible.

John sat at the breakfast table in the lee of the house, drinking his tea and looking out at the view. He remembered that in thirty years’ time, this land would all be awash with mud and lined with the trenches of war, but for now it was perfect.

“Ah, there you are!” Sherlock said as he came out of the house. The more casual atmosphere of the estate had had its effect on him; his top shirt button was undone, with no cravat, and the line of his throat was lovely. “I’ve been all over the house looking for you.”

“Madame Dupris offered to serve us out here. It’s such a lovely day, I couldn’t say no.”

“I wouldn’t risk saying no to Madame Dupris on any matter. Madame Dupris, by the way, is back in the kitchens.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes; and Justine is making up the rooms, and Jacques is in the library unpacking the books I brought. Therefore-” Sherlock took a quick glance around them, then leaned over and kissed John tenderly.

John returned the kiss heartily, but it was all too brief. They were still aware that while they had a certain degree of privacy here, it would not do to risk one of the servants returning and seeing them. He stroked Sherlock’s cheek, quickly but gently. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock grinned at him, then sat at the table. “I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“A present, but not from me, I confess. I had forgotten it in the busyness of your return and our departure from London. It was given to me by your Mr. Dunworthy, when he visited while you were away. The wrapping is from Blackwood and Sons in Paternoster Row; he must have bought it here, rather than bring it with him.” 

Sherlock handed him a small package, wrapped in brown paper. John took it, puzzled, and untied the string that held the package together. The paper fell away to reveal a handsome book, with a leather cover and creamy pages.

“A book – a journal,” John said. He opened it, and saw writing on the front page.

_ Dear John, _

_ A small token of my appreciation of you and your assistance to me in the past, and a gift for your future. All historians are, at heart, story-tellers – I thought that you could tell your own here. _

_ With affection and gratitude, _

_ James Dunworthy _

_ 1895 _

Speechless, John handed the book to Sherlock, who read the inscription. “A wise and good man, your Mr. Dunworthy.”

“Yes,” John said. He found himself a little teary. He would miss Mr. Dunworthy, and Bahdri, and all the others. He waited, as he often did now, for the tinge of regret of leaving his world behind, leaving his friends and career; but it didn’t come. This was his place now.

“The other journal you had, the one you kept while you were doing your study – you left it behind?”

“Yes. My departure was hasty, in the middle of the night, and they couldn’t tell me where I was going. I don’t need it anyway, anymore.”

“I’m afraid to say that I must advise against setting down your true history in that book or any other,” Sherlock said. “There is too great a risk of discovery.”

“Agreed,” John said. “But it is an excellent place to begin recording my new history that we have been discussing. Have you a pen, my love?”

Sherlock pulled a fountain pen from his pocket, and handed it to John with a smile. John thought for a moment, then began to write.

_ In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army… _

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless gratitude to my wonderful betas, who inspire and challenge me.
> 
> Endless gratitude as well to everyone who has been following this story, with your kudos and comments. Many thanks to all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | Always 1895](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417399) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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